Chapter 8
COSIMO
L’Orangerie was a softly lit French bistro. Polished mirrors lined the walls, scattering the candlelight across white tablecloths and delicate silverware, and the air smelled faintly of butter and wine.
I got here a few minutes early to make sure they gave us the specific table I’d requested.
It wasn’t merely a preference. It was a mandatory part of the plan.
The table sat halfway inside the restaurant, and you had to walk past it to get to the restroom.
Rosa would be able to swipe Fabiana’s purse and drop it back off without anyone noticing.
The waiter, a younger guy, gave me a curious look when I slipped him a hundred-dollar bill.
“When my guest arrives, you’re going to bring us a bottle of red, and then you’re going to spill some on her. Make it look accidental.”
His eyebrows lifted. I gave him the look that usually got me what I wanted, and he pocketed the bill and walked away.
I dialed Rosa, keeping my eye on the entrance. “She’ll be here any moment. Is your guy ready?”
“Yes. All I have to do is connect the device he gave me to Fabiana’s phone for a few minutes. He’ll pull everything. Messages, emails, call logs. The lot.”
“Good.”
“For the record, I think this is next-level psycho.”
“Think whatever you want. I’m not leaving any stone unturned.” I hung up.
I had to give it to Nettle. She’d almost had me fooled.
She played the role of an innocent mafia princess to a tee. The virgin comment had been a nice touch on the con.
But after Rosa’s discovery in Geneva, I was convinced it was a lie.
Fabiana had been fired from her UN job for accepting bribes. Bribes.
She’d lied to me when I’d asked her why she’d come home early. She was dirty, and a far better actress than I’d given her credit for. I was almost sure now that she and my mother had something worked out between them.
Once Rosa got into Fabiana’s phone, I’d have everything—messages, emails, any correspondence she’d had with Vita since the day they’d met. That would be enough to piece together exactly what they’d been planning.
I was going to make sure that by the time she walked out of this restaurant, she was seriously questioning whether whatever my mother had offered her was worth being married to me.
The restaurant door opened, and a flash of curly hair caught my eye. Fabiana stepped inside, a camel wool coat draped over her shoulders, a black leather purse tucked under one arm.
The host greeted her and took her coat.
Underneath, she wore a black dress that hugged her every damn curve.
I reached for my water. I’d wanted to get this meeting over with sooner, but right after the engagement party, I’d flown back to Colombia.
I’d negotiated with Alvarez and slept with one eye open at his compound outside Medellin.
He still wouldn’t tell us who we were up against, and I was doing everything I could to keep the Alvarez deal from slipping through our fingers.
You’d think the stress of that would’ve been enough to keep my mind off Fabiana, but instead, I’d found myself scrolling through her Instagram photos late at night when I should have been sleeping.
At first, I told myself it was reconnaissance—know thy enemy. But somewhere between the photos of her laughing with friends and the shots of her at some UN gala looking devastatingly elegant in a midnight-blue gown, it had become something else.
Something fucking frustrating I didn’t want to name.
She hadn’t posted any of our engagement photos. Maybe it was a sign she was starting to question her commitment to this marriage.
I wanted her to call this damned engagement off. I needed her to. And yet each time I checked her feed—and I checked it more often than I cared to admit—the absence of those photos sent an inexplicable spike of irritation through my chest.
I knew what she really was now, and yet some primitive, illogical part of me was still drawn to her.
That needed to end. Today.
“Cosimo.” Her tone was carefully neutral, like she wasn’t sure what she was about to encounter.
“Fabiana.”
“How have you been?” She sat down and hung her purse off the back of the chair.
“Busy.”
A flicker of frustration crossed her face before she smoothed it away. “I gathered as much. Your mom mentioned you’ve been traveling a lot to Colombia. How was—”
“She shouldn’t have said that.”
Fabiana blinked. “Why not?”
It was time to press on a button I knew would get her riled up. “It’s not something I want getting back to our enemies, one of which you appear to be best friends with.”
Fabiana’s boarding school connection to Mia Morales had been discovered by Romolo right after the engagement party. Ever since, he’d been working on getting close to Mia to see if we could use her to get something on her father. But so far, he’d made no progress.
The color drained from her face. “Mia is not your enemy. If my friendship with her makes you uncomfortable, I can promise you she’d never betray my confidence.”
The waiter came by to drop off some bread. “I’ll be right back with that wine you ordered.”
“Your friendship is over as soon as we’re wed.” I grabbed a piece of bread from the basket and tore it in half. “I’m surprised Rafaele hasn’t put an end to it already. He’s too lenient with you.”
“What do you mean our friendship is over?”
I spread butter across the bread with slow strokes. “Do I need to spell it out? It’s quite simple. You won’t be allowed to see her.”
“That’s ridicul—”
“I should probably tell you now that the guards you’ll have assigned to you at all times will maintain tight control over your movements. You won’t go anywhere I don’t want you to, Fabiana.”
Her hands curled into fists on the tablecloth.
I cocked a brow. “You thought there wouldn’t be rules?”
The waiter returned with the wine. “May I, miss?”
“Please.” Fabiana shoved her glass toward him with a sharp jerk of her hand.
He stepped closer. One moment he was pouring the wine, and the next, the glass was tipping over right into Fabiana’s lap. She was so busy glowering at me that she hadn’t even noticed he’d bumped it with his hand.
“Oh my God.” The waiter clutched the bottle to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
Fabiana was already on her feet, dabbing at her dress with a napkin. “It’s okay.”
“I feel awful. Your dress is all stained,” the waiter said, shooting me a dirty look.
“Show her where the bathroom is.”
“Of course. It’s just over there. Let me take you.”
A few seconds after they were gone, Rosa walked past and silently swiped Fabiana’s purse off the back of her chair.
I rolled my shoulders. So far, everything was going exactly to plan.
But not ten seconds later, Rosa was back. “It’s not in here,” she whispered, setting the purse back on the chair and kneeling beside me as if fixing her shoe.
“What?”
“Her phone. Must be on her. Didn’t you see her take it out?”
Fuck. “No. She must’ve had it in her hand or in a pocket.”
“I can try and get it off her in the bathroom.”
“Go.”
Rosa straightened and headed back the way she’d come.
My foot tapped against the floor. The noise of the restaurant pressed in—cutlery, laughter, the low hum of a couple arguing two tables over—but all of it felt muted beneath the hammering inside my chest. I needed this to work.
I needed to prove to myself that the woman who’d caught me off guard, who’d somehow made my shriveled heart race, was a fake.
My phone buzzed against my thigh.
Got it. Running analysis now.
I exhaled. Some of the tension bled out of my shoulders. I started a two-minute timer and set the phone face down on the table. That’s all Rosa’s tech guy needed.
The timer went off long before Fabiana slid back into her seat.
The same waiter reappeared. “How’s the dress, miss?”
“Fine. Thank you. I’m sure it’ll wash right out when I get home.”
My phone vibrated. I checked it under the table.
Nothing.
How much longer to analyze all of it?
It’s done. There’s nothing interesting here, Cosimo. Just her complaining to her friends about how much of an asshole you’ve been. Vita has messaged her a few times asking how she’s doing and about some wedding details, but Fabiana hasn’t mentioned you to her at all. There’s nothing here.
My stomach sank.
No. I didn’t believe it. Whatever deal they had, they must’ve discussed it in person, off the record. That was possible.
It also meant I had no way of finding out what the hell they’d agreed to, not unless Fabiana confessed it to me.
Slowly, I lifted my gaze back to her. She waited for the waiter to refill her glass and then leaned toward me.
“Look, Cosimo, I understand why you’re worried about Mia.
I really do. I can’t imagine how stressed you and your family must be about the upcoming election given the threats Mia’s dad has lobbed your way.
But Mia is one of my closest, oldest friends, and we have never talked about my family’s business.
There has to be some compromise we can agree on. ”
“I wonder why you think this is a discussion.”
She straightened. “Rafaele has never asked me to—”
“I don’t give a shit about what Rafaele has or hasn’t asked you. Once we’re married, you won’t answer to your brother anymore. You will answer to me, and to me only. Whatever rules I give you, reasonable or not, you’ll have to obey them.”
I waited for her to fold. At this point, most men who reported to me would’ve. Instead, she gave her head a small shake and skewered me with a frustrated look.
“Why are you like this? You’ve been treating me like I’m your enemy from day one, and I just don’t get it. Have I offended you somehow? If so, just tell me. I can promise you that I haven’t done anything on purpose.”
I stared into her eyes, those fucking pools of false earnestness, and my patience snapped like a wire pulled too tight.
“Enough,” I snarled. “Drop the fucking act, Fabiana. I’m tired of you pretending you’re so fucking innocent and self-sacrificial. I know you got fired from the UN for accepting bribes.”