Chapter Thirteen
Raya
I’VE JUST LACED UP my sneakers, about to head over to Brioso Hubb, when my phone rings.
Lorenzo.
Dammit. I was hoping for some free time to run a vibe check on the Uppers, to see where they stand with me after the Ricky Garro incident yesterday. They’ll either be wary of me now, or like me more. I’m hoping for the latter. They’re a valuable source of insight.
“Yes, boss?” I answer.
“You’re with Stefano today,” he says, to the point as always.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Gio came down with something.”
That was fast. It’s barely noon. “How is he?”
“Knocked out on meds,” he replies. “He was supposed to attend a meeting with Stefano. You’re going instead.”
“Me? Are you sure? Did you run it by him first?” I ask, taken aback. “Hard to believe he would want me tagging along. He barely tolerates me.”
Lorenzo chuckles. “It’s his idea. Meet him at the car park in an hour.”
In the background, Stefano’s voice cuts in, “Tell the little liar to dress like a woman, please. None of that depressive hobo-Viking shit she has going.”
That asshole. “You can tell that pompous pr—”
“One hour, Raya,” Lorenzo clips, his tone both firm and amused.
Before I can argue, he hangs up.
~
AN HOUR LATER, I leave the golf cart at the main cart station and cross the bridge to the car park.
Stefano is already there, leaned against one of his many matte-black Lincoln Navigators, dressed in an all-black suit. Immaculate. Effortless.
He’s on the phone, voice low and deep.
When he sees me approaching, he ends the call and straightens. His chest rises and falls with a sigh as his gaze drags over me.
What’s his problem now?
I glance down at myself. At the square-neck black dress paired with black flats and a small purse. The best I could pull from the Pink Closet without looking like a desperate single hunting for a rich husband. A major feat, considering the wardrobe options.
Despite his unimpressed expression, he makes no comment on my attire. Instead, he lifts his phone and…
The camera shutter goes off.
Did he just snap a picture of me?
Before I can ask, he bites out, “If you’re on time, you’re late.”
Then he opens the passenger door and gestures for me to get in.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to argue, to rankle him just for being such a miserable brute, but I hold back and climb in without backtalk.
“Good afternoon,” I greet the bald, stocky man behind the wheel.
He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and gives a curt nod. He wouldn’t know that I know exactly who he is. Oscar Weiland. One of the few non-Italians in the organization. Ex-military. Loyal to a fault to the Castellos after they pulled him out of homelessness.
Stefano slides in beside me and slams the door like the world personally offended him. “Detour to Wendy, Oscar.”
Oscar shifts into drive. “Sure, boss.”
Stefano spends the entire drive texting, ignoring me completely.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the alley entrance of a nondescript two-story building.
Without a word, Stefano gets out of the vehicle, buttons his jacket, and watches me expectantly.
Oh. The meeting’s here? I assumed this was just a quick stop.
When I’m out of the vehicle, Stefano prods me toward the metal door, as though I’m moving too slow for his liking. He punches in a code on the security panel, pulls the door open, then stares at me.
I stare right back. If he wants to be miserable, two can play that game.
But instead of gritting out insults at me like I expect, he surprises me by grasping my hand and pulling me through the door with him.
Heat shoots up my arm from his touch, subtle but impossible to ignore. I try to focus instead on keeping up with his pace as he leads me down a narrow hall.
The space opens into a cool, air-conditioned parlor, the air thick with the scent of peaches and strawberries. Overhead, sleek light fixtures cast a golden glow over mannequins, jewelry displays, and racks of high-end clothing.
A private boutique.
I flex my fingers in his hold. “I thought we were going to a meeting.”
“We were,” he confirms. “Until you showed up dressed like a grieving widow on a teacher’s salary.”
“Are you serious right—”
“Mr. Castello!” A gracefully svelte, middle-aged woman appears, greeting him with a kiss on both cheeks. “Always a delight to see this handsome face.”
“We’re on a time crunch, Wendy,” he says. “Do what you can.”
Before I can ask questions, Wendy pries my hand from Stefano’s and hurries me off. I glance back to protest, but Stefano’s already turned away, phone to his ear.
“Okay, I estimated your size from the photo Mr. Castello sent,” Wendy says as she ushers me into a mirrored fitting area. “I pulled a few options based on your body type. Let’s see which one’s the winner, shall we?”
That ass of a man. He really did take a picture of me. Unbelievable.
Annoyance prickles under my skin, but I bite my tongue and cooperate. Wendy is just doing her job. It wouldn’t be fair to inflict that temperamental brute of a man on her.
I let her fuss over me, slipping me into outfit after outfit as she mutters anxiously about how picky Stefano is.
In the end, we settle on an ivory double-breasted blazer dress that flares just below my knees, cinched at the waist with a D&G belt that compliments the gold buttons.
Simple gold slingback heels, and a delicate gold necklace with an emerald stone to “bring out the green” in my eyes.
My black clutch swapped for an ivory-and-gold YSL purse.
Although I come from money, high-end fashion has never interested me. I’ve always favored cotton and denim, comfort and practicality over couture.
But staring at my reflection right now, I look…important. Like someone who belongs in these circles. Exactly how Mom would want me to look.
I look like her.
“You have beautiful hair, full and healthy,” Wendy murmurs, running her fingers through my air-dried waves. “The braids don’t quite go with the outfit, but there’s no time, so we’ll have to make it work.”
She leads me to a mini salon setup, where two assistants get to work, smoothing my hair and refining my look with light makeup and a neat coiffure that blends seamlessly with the braids.
Eighteen minutes later, I’m escorted back to the front lounge.
Stefano is sprawled on a red boutique sofa, swiping across his phone. At our approach, he glances up, and something flickers across his face before his expression smooths into indifference.
He stands, buttons his jacket, and gives me a slow, assessing once-over.
“As always, Wendy,” he says with an approving nod, “your touch is magic.”
Wendy beams. “Thank you, Mr. Castello. It was short notice, but Raya is unfussy and incredibly easy to work with.”
“Put together some outfits in this vein and send them to the villa,” he tells her. “Invoice me.”
“Certainly.”
Stefano strides forward and takes my hand, muttering, “You clean up well, little liar.”
For appearances sake, I remain well-behaved, docile as a lamb, as he leads me out.
Once we’re back in the car and on the move, I turn to him. “Do you think I’m one of your little toys? Someone you can dress up like a doll and drag around however you please?”
Without even looking at me, he replies, “Yes.”
Oh, you arrogant beast. How lucky you are that I’m fond of you. If you were anyone else…
“Of all the things I’ve heard about the great Stefano Castello, being a chauvinistic bratwurst wasn’t one of them.”
“You signed a contract that states for as long as you reside with the Castellos, you are property of the Castellos. And I do whatever the hell I please with my property.” His voice is calm, almost bored.
“Don’t like being my rag doll? Leave.” He looks at me now, eyes cold and unyielding.
“But you won’t. Because we both know you’re a foxy little liar hiding your true face. Delilah—earning your pieces of silver.”
“Paranoid kings always end up as mad kings, you know,” I return. “If you truly think I’m this crafty, deceptive snake infiltrating your camp, why am I still alive? Why bring me along to your supposedly important meeting?”
His lips curve slightly. “How do you know I’m not misleading you? Maybe we’re headed to your death ceremony.” Something wicked glints in his eyes. “You’re not the only one who knows how to lie, little fox.”
“This is an awfully expensive outfit just to kill me. A mere nobody worm like me.” I flick nonexistent lint from my dress. “Hard to believe, considering everyone knows the true love of your life is il denaro.”
Leaning in close, so close our noses almost touch, he grits out, “Before I kill you, I’m going to cut out your tongue and make you sit at my feet for a week. Silent. Helpless. Unable to run this”—his gaze drops to my lips, heated and scathing— “worthless mouth of yours.”
I snort. “Of course. The misogynistic patriarchy does hate it when women have voices, doesn’t it?”
He scoffs. “You’re barely a woman.”
“And you’re all man. So big…so bad…so strong…so terrifying.” I lower my head in mock reverence. “My liege.”
A whisper of a smile, so faint it might be imagined, plays across his perfectly sculpted lips. There, and then gone, before he turns to the window and ignores me for the rest of the drive.