Chapter 13 Cybil #2
flight. His shirt isn’t even wrinkled. Meanwhile, I’m one wrong move away from smelling like a milky espresso for eternity.
I sweep my hair into a topknot and will my pride to recover. “I thought my flight was the last one in.”
“It was.”
I frown. “Then how—?”
“Private jet.”
Of course. I look away, jaw tight. There has to be a middle road somewhere between coach and criminal luxury.
Maybe a semi-ethical economy plus with no champagne but just enough legroom for the morally superior?
I push the envy down and sit straighter.
I need to remember who I’m talking to—who he works for.
If I’m stuck in the car with Ben, I might as well try to learn something useful for Athena. “So,” I say casually, “you must
do pretty good business to afford flying private.”
“It’s the company’s jet.”
Not helpful. “Do you travel out of country a lot for work?”
“Not really.” He shifts and his knee bumps mine. A little zing dances across my skin, and I pretend it didn’t happen. I subtly
move my leg away. “What about you?” he asks. “I thought you were flying in with Mr. Edmond and Sebastian.”
I shrug, slouching deeper into the seat. “I had some work to do at the office,” I lie.
He nods, then reaches for his bag, unzips it, and pulls out a pack of M&M’s. He opens it and holds it toward me. “Still your
favorite?”
My stomach tightens at the sight of them—comfort food, sugar therapy, and one of my oldest coping mechanisms. I want them.
Badly. But I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
His brow lifts. “You’re turning down chocolate?”
“I don’t like it.”
Ben cocks his head, skeptical. “The girl I remember stashed bags of these like a chipmunk stocking up for hibernation. You
kept bags stashed in your—”
“Maybe I’m not the girl you remember,” I say, cutting him off.
He studies me for a beat, like he’s not sure whether that makes him disappointed or just more intrigued.
I fidget with the ring on my thumb. Spinning it, then tightening it against my knuckle. It’s loose, maybe from the flight.
Or nerves. I glance at him, and his eyes catch on my hand.
“It fits,” he says softly.
My throat tightens. The memory of him climbing into the ravine flashes back to mind again. The boy who, without hesitation,
went after my ring to save it. A boy I thought I knew.
But that was before . . . Before now, when I know he works for someone like Ramirez.
Before everything about him—his charm, his smile, the way he remembers my favorite candy—might be nothing more than a carefully constructed lie.
I slide my hand into my lap, away from his view, and turn back to the window.
I can’t afford to forget why I’m here. And I definitely can’t afford to fall for the boy I used to know.
The car winds up the circular drive of Villa Serendipitá, headlights sweeping across gravel and stone. It’s late—so late that
the town of Lagoverde is nothing but shadows and scattered golden windows dotting the hills. I press my forehead to the glass,
trying to catch a glimpse of Italy beyond the night, but the darkness swallows it whole.
When the driver opens my door, my jaw drops at the beautiful Italian villa. Even in the muted glow of exterior lights, it’s
stunning.
Honey-colored stone catches the warm glint of lanterns. Green shutters hug arched windows. Ivy and bougainvillea stretch like
lazy arms up the walls. I catch just a glimpse of the terra-cotta roof and the lemon trees in the courtyard, and in this moonlit
version it looks like a fairy tale.
I want to absorb every bit of it—because places like this don’t happen to me in real life. They happen to people with trust
funds or criminal ties.
“The key to your room.”
Ben’s voice pulls me back to reality. While I’ve been admiring tile and inhaling the soft citrus scent, he’s already grabbed
his suitcase and collected our room keys from the concierge. He hands me mine.
We cross the courtyard and step into a wide foyer with vaulted ceilings and wrought-iron chandeliers. Everything smells like
citrus and polished wood and old money. Or stolen money. Villa Serendipitá is the kind of place you book for a wedding—Godfather style.
“There’s no elevator,” Ben says as we reach the bottom of a grand staircase. “It’s just one floor.”
We climb the stairs and are halfway down the hallway when a man steps through an arched doorway that looks like it’s attached to a veranda.
He’s tall, sharp-jawed, and doesn’t look like someone who belongs in this beautiful villa.
His gaze slides over me with cool disinterest, but Ben’s body goes stiff.
Just a blink of tension that makes me notice the twitch of his jaw.
“Friend of yours?” I ask, nodding toward the guy who’s disappeared back on the veranda.
Ben doesn’t look directly. “No.”
But there’s something about his answer that has me making a mental note. The way Ben shifted—yeah, he knows that guy.
My room is across the hall from Ben’s. He hesitates at his door.
“Do you want to switch rooms?” he asks.
I blink. “Why?”
He shrugs. “The sun rises on that side of the villa. I know you’re not a morning person. Thought you might want the one that
stays darker longer.”
My jaw twitches. I hate how predictable he still thinks I am. I plant my hand on my hip and smile sweetly. “Actually, I love the morning now. Nothing better than waking up to the sunlight on my face.”
Ben stares with a look that says he doesn’t buy the lie I’m trying to sell him, but I refuse to let him think he still knows me. He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
“I always do.” I slide my card key across the reader, and the light blinks green. The door unlocks. “One more thing,” I glance
at Ben over my shoulder. “Will you let me know if Fiorella calls about my luggage?”
“I will,” he says. “But for the record, that sweatshirt’s growing on me.”
I roll my eyes. “Good night, Mr. Miller.”
He smiles, lazy and smug. “Good night, Billy.”
He says it just low enough to float across the hall before his door clicks shut. Three words. A stupid nickname. And just
like that, I know—Bennett Bradley is going to make this job very, very complicated.