Chapter 13 Cybil
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Thursday night
“Missing. Luggage.”
The very beautiful Italian woman—Fiorella, because of course she has a name that sounds like a perfume ad—keeps nodding at
me, but the lost look in her equally beautiful eyes says she has no idea what I’m saying.
I step back and check the sign above my head. “Bagaglio aereo Lagoverde.” That’s the name of the tiny airline that delivered
me to the Lagoverde airport. There’s a picture of a suitcase next to it, so logic suggests I’m in the right place to find
my missing luggage.
I set my cappuccino on the counter and point to the tag the gate agent in Rome handed me when she decided my “American-sized
carry-on” was too big for the overhead bin. “My bag is on this flight,” I say, then point to the empty luggage carousel behind
me. “Not there. Missing.”
Fiorella—who, let’s be honest, looks like she stepped off a runway, not into a baggage claim job—gives me a placating smile.
If this were America, travelers would probably hope to lose their luggage just to talk to her. Assuming they spoke Italian.
Which I do not.
She glances at my cappuccino like it personally offends her, so I slide it off the counter.
“La tua, borsa non è qui,” she says.
I have no idea what that means.
This is what I get for choosing the high road and not accepting Mr. Edmond’s invitation to fly private with him and Sebastian.
A “moral superiority” is what Athena calls my refusal to accept a paycheck from Mr. Edmond. I refuse to take money—or travel
perks—from a man who profits off shady deals. No matter how generous he tries to be. My income comes directly from Athena
and the side jobs I do for Marcos—covert tasks wrapped in nondisclosure agreements and plausible deniability. It’s enough
to pay my rent, feed my chocolate habit, and keep my conscience mostly quiet.
So here I am: moral superiority rerouting my paycheck from Edmond to a victims’ advocacy group, and me wedged in a middle
seat on a regional airline—because apparently, my conscience prefers turbulence and a complimentary side of missing baggage.
“Signora, per favore, compili il modulo.”
I take the form and fan myself with it, searching the mostly empty airport for anyone who might be American—or at least capable
of speaking English. No such luck. Unlike the bustling airport in Rome, this one is a tenth of the size, maybe smaller. A
handful of gates line one side, and a private terminal sits behind a wall of glass, shielding the wealthy and powerful from
the rest of us commoners.
The only thing open when I arrived was a tiny coffee kiosk where I managed to secure a true Italian cappuccino to steady my
nerves. Barely. The barista kept shaking his head at me, offering espresso instead. But a straight shot of caffeine this late
at night would be the sprinkles to my already disastrous sundae.
“Signora?”
I turn back to Fiorella, still annoyingly flawless in her polyester uniform.
Who am I kidding? This is Italy; it’s probably Versace.
She holds out a pen. I take it with a muttered grazie—one of three Italian words I know.
Buongiorno, ciao, and grazie. I also know macaroni and fettuccine, but that’s not going to help me right now.
Pen in hand, I twist to grab my shoulder bag off the floor—but catch my heel in the strap. There’s that moment when you can
feel the fall happening, when time slows just enough for you to register the person who’s about to witness your descent into humiliation.
So whose broad frame and crooked smile do I see right before my cappuccino baptizes the front of my shirt?
Bennett Bradley.
Aka Craig freaking Miller.
The noise that escapes my lips is somewhere between a yelp, a groan, and a cry as lukewarm liquid drenches the only outfit
I possess in Italy.
“Whoa.” Ben rushes toward me, hands flailing in that useless gesture people make when they want to help but have absolutely
nothing to offer. It’s somehow making everything worse.
Until he turns and flashes that crooked smile at Fiorella—and starts speaking in fluent Italian.
Fluent. Italian.
I just stare at him, jaw unhinged, while my cappuccino-soaked shirt begins clinging to all the wrong places.
Fiorella nods at whatever he says and disappears into the office behind her.
“Did you burn yourself?”
“No.”
He eyes me like he doesn’t believe that for a second, and for a moment, I forget I’m not supposed to like him. “Let me take
that.” He takes the empty cup from my hand and tosses it into the trash, then gently pries the pen and form from my fingers.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
I realize I’m staring. “Yeah. No. I mean—they lost my bag. You speak Italian?”
Ben’s smile tilts humble. “A little.”
Fiorella returns with paper towels, which she passes to him with a flutter of dark lashes.
He says something else to her—something that makes her blush—and my own cheeks burn, but for entirely different reasons.
Even without wearing a cappuccino and looking like I’ve traveled for twelve hours, standing next to Fiorella is a humbling experience.
She’s all polished elegance. I’m a hot, soggy mess.
And just like that, I’m seventeen again, standing in the Texas heat, hoping I might someday be enough for a boy like Ben Bradley.
“Here.”
Ben passes the paper towels to me and I blot the stain, but it’s pointless. “It looks like I’ve been stabbed by a cappuccino.”
“It’s artistic,” Ben says, his lip quirking. “Espresso-nist art.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me, clearly impressed with himself. And there’s a tiny traitorous tug in my chest that wants to
give him the win. But Athena’s voice cuts through the fog—her warning, which already feels like a lifetime ago. “Ben doesn’t make his money working for the good guys.”
Whatever charm he’s working with—crooked smiles, smoldering brows, espresso puns—it’s just camouflage. And I can’t afford
to get distracted by camouflage. No matter how good he looks speaking Italian.
“Thanks, I’ve got it from here.”
“You’re staying at the Villa Serendipitá?”
I scrunch the paper towels in my hand. “Yes.” The word comes out slow, cautious, as I scan his face. “How do you know that?”
“We’re all staying there.”
“Wha—”
Before I can finish, Ben turns back to Fiorella and launches into more of his maddeningly fluent Italian. In the blur of their
rapid-fire exchange, he scribbles something on a piece of paper while she rummages through a cabinet. A moment later, they
make a trade—the paper for a rolled-up ball of fabric—and somehow he’s slinging my shoulder bag over his own.
“Ready?”
“For what?”
Ben gives me a look like I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Sleep deprivation and time zones are conspiring against my brain. “To
the villa?”
“I’m not going—” I glance at Fiorella, who’s now flipping off lights and locking up for the night. “I still need to find my luggage. The form—”
“All filled out. Fiorella has the villa’s address, the phone number there, and mine. She’ll call when they find your bag.”
Oh, I bet she has his number.
“I can get to the villa on my own.” I try for confidence, but based on how well tonight has gone, my tone is lacking. The
way Ben’s eyes crinkle at the edges, he hears it too.
“Put this on.” He hands me the ball of fabric, and I realize it’s a sweatshirt. But the second I catch the writing across
the front, I shove it right back into his hands.
“No.”
He frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I snatch it back, flatten it out, and hold it up like evidence. His mouth twitches and his Adam’s apple jumps before he clears
his throat with exaggerated innocence.
“I don’t see the problem.”
“‘I’m sexy and Italian—got meatballs?’” I deadpan. “Did you do this on purpose?”
“I simply asked Fiorella if she had something you could change into so you’re not wearing a sticky shirt.”
I glance toward the counter, but Fiorella is gone—probably halfway into a group text about the American girl who can’t handle
her cappuccino. “I’m not wearing this.”
Ben shrugs. “Okay, but your blouse is see-through.”
“What?” I press the sweatshirt to my chest and peek down. My eyes snap back to him, but all I catch is his back as he strolls
toward the exit with my bag. “It is not.”
But I slip the sweatshirt over my head, just in case, and hurry after Ben.
“I can get a taxi,” I say, reaching for my bag.
“Just say thank you.”
“What?”
He holds open the glass door, eyes steady. “It’s okay to say thank you and accept help.”
His tone is kind, but it still lands like an admonishment. I wasn’t trying to be ungrateful. And if Ben hadn’t shown up when he did, I’d probably still be at the counter, waging war with my limited
vocabulary and Fiorella’s painfully polite pity.
At the curb, a sleek black BMW with dark-tinted windows glides up to the curb. The driver steps out, takes my bag, and loads
it into the trunk. Ben opens the back door and waits.
I hesitate. Accepting help always comes at a cost. Sometimes it’s monetary. Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it costs everything. When you grow up without the means to pay
the price, you learn it’s safer to rely on yourself. But tonight? I’m too tired to negotiate the emotional fine print.
“Thank you,” I say quietly as I slide into the back seat.
Ben climbs in beside me, setting a leather bag on the floor by his feet before loosening the top button of his shirt. Then
he rolls up the sleeves—and I instantly regret looking. Forearms should not be allowed to be that distracting. The driver
shuts the door, and the car eases away from the curb.
I look at the bag by his feet. “Is that all you brought?” I ask, needing to fill the air with something other than the heat
crawling up my neck.
“My luggage is already in the trunk.” He settles back, perfectly at ease.
I glance at him, trying not to look like I’m comparing. But I am. He looks like he just strolled out of a spa—not a transcontinental