Chapter 14 Ben
Ben
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday morning
Morning light filters through the archways and spills across the terra-cotta tiles of the veranda, warming the spot where
I’ve planted myself after a quick breakfast and an even quicker meeting with Ramirez and Rook. Beyond the balcony, the sunlight
glints off the lake that gives the quaint Italian village, Lagoverde, its name. Cicadas hum. Birds chatter from the branches
overhead. And down the sloping hillside, the town is waking up.
I could die here.
The irony isn’t lost on me. Especially after the conversation I just had with Ramirez. My plan this morning was simple. Outline
how I’d manage his accounts for the deal. Ask strategic questions. Propose a few layered shell options. Talk off-ledger asset
routes and how I plan to clean up overlapping ownership trails. You know—normal criminal enterprise things.
But Ramirez wasn’t interested.
He said he wouldn’t be joining me for the meeting with Alessandro Moretti. Told me he trusted me to handle the details. That
was surprise number one.
Surprise number two was the YubiKey clipped to his key chain, resting beside his espresso like a casual afterthought. Small. Harmless looking. But lethal to my entire plan.
The device generates a new encrypted passcode every day, required to access his files and accounts. If he’s using it to log
in, the sniffer hidden in my laptop won’t capture anything useful. No data. No evidence.
So whatever he’s hiding? It’s locked behind a blinking piece of plastic now sitting in his pocket. Which means I need a new
plan. One that doesn’t get me killed.
Lagoverde is a beautiful place to die. But I’d like to keep that off the plan.
I’ve already sent an encrypted update to Ruby, looping her in on the new complication. Not exactly the wake-up call I wanted
to give her, but if we’re hoping to salvage this mission, she needs to know the facts—fast.
For now, I act like everything’s fine. Like my mission didn’t just hit a wall. Like I’m not thinking about the brunette sleeping
across the hall from me.
I stretch my arms overhead, trying to shake the tension I woke up with. Last night after I’d stepped into the suite, it took
everything in me not to cross the hall and knock on Cybil’s door—just to check on her. Make sure she was okay.
If it were just the two of us here, I might’ve done it. But with Ramirez, Rook, Mr. Edmond, and Sebastian scattered through
the villa like land mines, the risk of exposing our connection wasn’t worth it.
So instead, I grabbed one of my clean T-shirts, set it outside her door with a quick knock, then ducked back into my room
like some idiot teenager pulling a stunt at summer camp.
I watched through the peephole like a stalker, unsure if she’d take it or toss it back at my door. But when she opened her
door, I swear I caught the hint of a smile tug at her lips. I didn’t think about what the image of her sleeping in my shirt
would do to my pulse—until it did.
And then Ruby ruined it with a single text message.
Remember who Cybil is working for and what they are willing to do to protect their interests. If she slips up, it’s your neck. Watch her, but don’t get distracted. She may not be an innocent bystander, and you can’t afford to forget that, no matter how much you think you can trust her.
I’d chalked up seeing Cybil at the airport as coincidence. Ruby’s message made it clear—it wasn’t. The FBI orchestrated this.
Made sure our paths crossed last night.
She may not be an innocent bystander. Yet that’s exactly who I believe her to be. No way is Cybil anything more than someone working for the wrong man at the wrong
time and certainly in the wrong place.
I rise from the table and head inside. I have a meeting with an Italian banker in an hour. A man who’s definitely not innocent
and is maybe the only thread I have to pull if I want to unravel Ramirez’s empire from the inside.
I take the long way through the hall, instinct or something like it tugging me away from the direct route. That’s when I see
her.
Cybil.
She’s midstep in the hallway, pausing just long enough to peek inside one of the doors. Her hand rests lightly on the knob
before she lets it ease closed.
I approach, keeping my steps quiet. She doesn’t hear me until I’m behind her. “Looking for a minibar, or plotting your escape
route?”
She startles—slightly—but recovers fast. Her arms cross. Eyes narrow. “Coffee,” she says, dry as ever. “If I don’t find caffeine
soon, I will become a public safety issue.”
I nod down the hall. “Breakfast is set up on the veranda.”
“Thanks,” she mutters, brushing past me.
She’s wearing my T-shirt, knotted at the hip over the slacks she had on last night. Somehow, she’s made the ensemble fashionable.
My clothes have never looked that good—or that off-limits. She glances at the folder in my hand. “Spreadsheets in the morning?”
“I always start my day with coffee and a side of numbers.”
Her brow arches. “You seem more like a Lucky Charms kind of guy.”
I go still for half a second, scanning for anyone who might be close enough to hear. No one here would know that about me—my
favorite childhood breakfast. No one but her. She’s playing a dangerous game and doesn’t even know it. One wrong comment,
one curious ear, and suddenly it’s not just a joke between us—it’s a crack in the armor. A reason for someone like Ramirez
to ask questions I can’t afford.
I should go back to my room, then head out to my meeting, but I find myself walking with her to the veranda. Her eyes light
up when she sees the buffet table set up with fresh fruit, eggs, and pastries. She zeroes in on a croissant and starts to
reach for it.
I get there first.
“Hey?”
“Sorry,” I say, taking a big bite just to prove the point. I rotate the pastry so she can see the chocolate layered between
the buttery pastry. “You don’t like chocolate.”
She glares and steps around me, grabbing coffee instead. With a mug in hand, she walks to the railing, her profile framed
by the lake in front of her. “It’s almost too beautiful to be real.”
“Sure is,” I reply before I can stop myself.
She glances back, eyes catching mine. And for a second, it’s not a game.
“Will you have time to sightsee while you’re here?” I ask, trying to shove the moment back into the box where it belongs.
“A little this morning,” she says. “Mr. Edmond gave me the morning off to sleep and grab some clothes in town before our meetings.”
The breeze lifts a strand of hair, making it dance against her neck, and I swallow. Hard.
I need to leave. I need to prep for the meeting. I need to stop looking at her like she’s anything but a potential liability.
Then she turns those eyes on me. “How long have you been working for him?”
I rock on my heels. “Who?”
“Mr. Ramirez, the man who paid for all of this.”
“Not long,” I say.
“And yet here you are. Private jets and views for days.”
“Just a day and a half,” I correct her. “But yeah, the job comes with perks.”
“I bet it does,” she mumbles into her coffee.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I want to ask why, but before I can, she’s already moving.
“You’re not having breakfast?”
She eyes the buffet table and the plain croissants. “I’ll grab something in town. Thanks for letting me borrow this,” she
says, tugging the hem of my T-shirt. “I’ll get it back to you today.”
“No rush,” I say—because I mean it. I shouldn’t. But I do.
She disappears through the archway, and I catch myself watching her go. Truth is, I like seeing her in my shirt. More than
I should. But leaning into that now? That’s a one-way ticket to disaster.
Because Cybil’s not the only one working the wrong job in the wrong place at the worst possible time.
I let that sobering thought follow me into town to meet Alessandro Moretti. Lagoverde is already buzzing, prepping for the
Festival of Masks. Stalls are going up along the piazza, their striped awnings unfurling like sails. Paper lanterns hang from
the second-story balconies, strung between buildings like garland.
My burner buzzes in my pocket.
I duck into a narrow alley between two pastel buildings—shuttered windows overhead, drying laundry swaying like flags. Quiet
enough to take the call.
“Miller.”
“I’ve got Seth on the line,” Ruby says.
“Hey, man,” Seth adds, voice rough around the edges.
I check my watch, do the math. “It’s not even four in Dallas. Please tell me you didn’t get up just for me.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Seth says. “Jess caught whatever the girls had, so I’ve been up all night on dad duty. It’s fine. I’m dead inside.”
“Sorry, man.”
Ruby cuts in. “Focus, boys. I think I’ve got a way around the YubiKey.”
I relax against the concrete wall. “Tell me.”
“First, you’re lucky we didn’t try anything at the museum,” she says. “If you’d used the device on Ramirez’s laptop without
knowing about that key, it would’ve flagged an intrusion attempt instantly. He would’ve burned you on the spot.”
My guts twists. Sammy Pawson had been at the museum. I don’t want to think about what he would’ve done if I’d been caught.
But . . . now he’s here. In Italy.
Last night, seeing him in the same hallway as Cybil—I nearly reached for her. Instinct. One I had to bury fast. I don’t want
her anywhere near that man, but I can’t react without blowing my cover. And that kills me. There has to be a better way to
keep her safe.
The memory of Edmond questioning Ramirez returns and a new fear wriggles its way into my brain. “Do you think Ramirez suspects
something?”
Ruby’s quiet for a beat. “We haven’t picked up on any chatter. Nothing on our end indicates you’ve been made. But that doesn’t
mean you’re in the clear. He’s suspicious of everyone—assume yourself included.”
“Noted.”
I scan the street. Tourists wander past with shopping bags, ducking into cafés and boutiques. A woman in a linen dress laughs
with her friend. It’s all so normal. But I half expect to see Sammy’s face in the crowd, staring back from some shadow.
“You remember that air-drop decoy I loaded on the drive?” Ruby asks.
“Yeah.”
“It’ll work if Ramirez opens it. Doesn’t matter if he’s got a YubiKey—if he’s already logged in, the file will piggyback off
the session.”
“But you’ve got to be close when it happens,” Seth adds. “Bluetooth range. The decoy doesn’t transmit over Wi-Fi, so you’re the receiver. You miss the window, you miss the data.”
“So I just need him to open up a file while I’m in range,” I mutter. “Sounds easy.”
“It’s not,” Ruby agrees.
“Ramirez isn’t exactly my email buddy,” I say. “Everything goes through Rook.”
“You’re meeting with the banker, right?” Seth asks.
“Yeah, in about ten minutes.”
“Good. When it’s finished, go to Ramirez. Tell him there’s a revised document—something new, something time-sensitive. He
opens it while you’re nearby, the bug does its thing.”
“And if he pushes back?”
“Tell him the update is critical,” Seth says, yawning. “Say the changes address a compliance issue. International regulations,
cross-border transfers—whatever sounds annoying enough that he believes you. If he delays, you can mention that it’s the kind
of oversight that flags regulators. SEC, foreign banks—and that’s the last thing he wants.”
I nod to myself, already forming the lie. “A revised shell corp draft.”
“Exactly,” Seth says. “Once he opens it, you’ve got twenty minutes. If he scrolls through anything suspicious, you’ll have
it.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I ask.
“Then we pivot,” Ruby says. “But this gives you your best shot without needed access credentials.”
My phone buzzes again—calendar alert. Time to meet Moretti.
“Thanks,” I say. “Both of you. I’ll update you later.”
I end the call and pocket the phone, stepping back into the sunlight and toward the café. The morning crowd thickens, voices
rising, vendors hawking espresso and festival masks in bursts of color. I weave between them, trying to focus on Moretti and
the mission with Ramirez.
But my thoughts won’t settle.
Even if this works—even if Ramirez opens the file and gives us what we need—I need to make sure Cybil doesn’t get caught in
the middle.
Applause erupts ahead, drawing my attention to a street performer spinning in a white costume, a colorful mask hiding his face. Music spills from a nearby café. Locals cheer. It’s the kind of picturesque chaos tourists love to post about.
I skirt around the crowd, eyes sweeping the faces—out of habit more than intent. But I catch myself looking for her. It’s
stupid. Reckless. I know that. Especially after the call I just had. Especially with Sammy Pawson somewhere out there. I didn’t
see him this morning, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t nearby. Watching.
The last thing I want is for Cybil to be anywhere near him or me while I’m working this case. And yet . . . some traitorous
part of me hopes she’ll be standing at a corner, holding a coffee, smiling like we’re just two people on vacation. Like this
is a moment instead of a mission.
Get your head straight, Ben. Remember who Cybil is working for and what they’re willing to do to protect their interests.
She may not be an innocent bystander . . .
I don’t know what Earl Edmond is capable of—but I know what Ramirez is. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t send emails. He sends
Sammy Pawson.
I stop in front of a busy panetteria, and the scent of warm bread and sugar perfumes the air. But it’s not the smell that holds me still.
A man in gray slacks and a black shirt leans against a post across the street. Fedora pulled low over his brow. Not monitoring
the bakery. Not paying attention to the crowd. Watching me.
My pulse spikes. I search my memory. Nothing. I don’t recognize him. And that’s a problem.
I cross the street, moving casually, as if I haven’t clocked him. Ten feet later, he follows. Not a coincidence—I’m being
tailed.
How long? And by whom?
It’s not Pawson. But it could be someone who works for him. Someone paid to watch. Or worse. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s
a network here—men in suits with local accents and clean knives.
Guys who don’t ask questions.
They just find you.
And make sure no one ever does again.