Chapter 15 Cybil
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday morning
“Bellissima.”
Beautiful is the last word I’d use to describe the disaster blinking back at me in the mirror. The villa concierge gave me
a list of nearby boutiques, but after converting euros to dollars and realizing my budget was more suggestion than substance,
I ended up here—in a shop that sells international calling cards, Pope-themed knickknacks, and a deeply concerning assortment
of anatomically suggestive pasta. And, unfortunately, the only clothes my bank account can afford.
The airline still hasn’t found my luggage. The concierge offered to send my coffee-stained blouse to be cleaned, but it wouldn’t
be back in time for my meetings with Edmond. So here I am. Desperate. But not this desperate.
“Bellissima, sì?”
The sweet, elderly shopkeeper tries again. Wispy gray hair frames her weathered face, and she gestures to me with the kind
of hopeful smile that could probably sell sand to a Sicilian.
I glance down at the very . . . patriotic outfit she convinced me to try on.
I’d hoped for some designer-inspired pantsuit or trendy wrap dress, but instead I’m standing under buzzing fluorescent lights in a royal blue tracksuit with the word ITALIA blazing across my chest like a tourist beacon.
The stripes down the sleeves and pant legs? Red, white, and green. Naturally.
“Kardashian,” she says proudly, gesturing at me like I’m ready for the runway. Or a car commercial.
I try to chuckle. “More like Joey Tribbiani in a tracksuit,” I mutter.
And that’s the problem. I cannot show up to meetings looking like Italy’s unofficial mascot. The goal is to blend in, not become a walking souvenir.
The bell over the door jingles, and she shuffles off to help a new customer. I send up a silent prayer they’re bilingual and
can help me communicate that I don’t want to look like a knockoff reality star. My hopes are dashed when I hear them break
into enthusiastic Italian.
I duck back behind the curtain and stare at my reflection again. This can’t be my life. And yet—here I am.
My options are limited. If you love Ferrari, this place has an entire section. Fancy aprons featuring Michelangelo’s David? You’re covered. They even have T-shirts with quippy puns and jokes, like “Fuhgeddaboudit” and “Grab life by the meatballs.” I already have one of those—thanks to Ben.
Speaking of Ben, where is he when I need him?
No, I don’t need him. I need his Italian. That’s it. Just his language skills. Not his smile. Or the way he looks at me like
he still sees the girl I was. I just need the Italian.
The tracksuit itches. Probably polyester. Or regret.
Ben’s T-shirt lies on the bench. It’s buttery soft and still smells like him—clean soap, something citrusy. Something . . .
dangerous to my emotional stability.
I shouldn’t have worn it today. Last night, I shoved it in the armoire and put on the complimentary robe instead, pretending
it didn’t matter that he left the shirt outside my door. But it did. And I hate that it did.
The gesture caught me off guard. Just like everything else about him lately. I keep trying to categorize him: the boy I once knew, the potential threat Athena warned me about, the man who stole my chocolate croissant. Still kicking myself for that lie.
Twelve years I’ve carried his voice like a splinter under my skin. “She’s a mess. Reckless.” His words chased me through college, into a job and a life that didn’t unravel every time someone let me down. And now Ben’s
here, unraveling everything.
This morning was already a close call. I thought I was being careful, tiptoeing down the hallway to check the villa’s study
where the meeting is supposed to take place this afternoon, only to practically run into Ben.
I panicked. Blurted out something about coffee, which technically wasn’t a lie. But Ben’s casual demeanor, his smug smile,
the way he keeps acting like he knows me—it’s throwing me off.
My phone rings, yanking me back to the present. It’s my mom.
“Hey, Mom.” I check the time in Michigan. Five a.m. “You’re up early today.”
“Hi, honey! Quick question—do you know how to unfreeze a bank account?”
I close my eyes and sigh. “What did you do?”
“I may have flagged the autopay for my electricity as fraud again. The logo changed.”
Of course it did. Mom has come a long way since showing up on my doorstep with a suitcase, a loose grip on reality, and a
promise to do better. But ADHD doesn’t vanish with good intentions. It still sneaks up on her—disguised as impulsive decisions,
forgotten bills, and, yes, fraud alerts on recurring charges that help her stay on top of her payments.
I couldn’t trust her then—not when I was working two jobs and drowning in student loans I took out to support us both—but
I couldn’t turn her away either.
With Joy’s help, we found the Lighthouse Sanctuary, a structured living community with job support and staff who understand
ADHD. It’s been a godsend. But it’s not cheap. A sponsor covers a third of the residency program and I cover the rest. Mom
takes care of her day-to-day bills.
I miss her. I just don’t miss the chaos.
My fingers play with the thin gold band on my thumb. How different would our lives be if my dad was still here? Or if my mom’s
attention span was long enough to see between the lies that stole the settlement money right from under her nose?
“How far behind are you?”
“Just a few months,” she says like it’s nothing.
But it’s more than nothing. It means I’ll have to move money around to figure out how to cover the unexpected expense. It
also means I’m stuck wearing this atrocious outfit.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, sweetie. I owe you.”
That’s always how it goes. I love her, but she’s always going to be one unpaid bill away from a first-name basis with debt
collectors.
I hang up and fork over ninety-eight euros for the tracksuit and walk out of the store with my pride slightly more impoverished
than my bank account. Any hope I had of flying under the radar in this outfit dies the moment I step outside.
An old man with thick eyebrows and no sense of boundaries wolf-whistles. I lift my chin and try to channel Kardashian energy.
“I’m confident. I am cool. I am—oof!”
I’m crashing into a line of rental bikes. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, three of them fall noisily to the ground.
“Sorry,” I say to the teen who comes to help.
“You want bike?”
“Absolutely not,” I say—just as I spot Ben across the piazza.
He’s seated at a café table with a man who at first glance I thought was Rook. But moving around the bikes, I get a better
look. And it’s not Ramirez’s lawyer. This man is tall. Expensive looking. Mafia vibes. His hair is slicked back, his suit
sharp, and those eyes? Cold. Calculating. And tracking the movement around him like he’s watching for someone.
I inch toward a rack of masks strung up in front of a gift shop and duck behind it. My heart’s thudding so loud I worry he’ll
hear it across the street. Ben turns his head.
“Signora?” I spin and face the shop owner, a man with a bright smile and wearing a bright red Ferrari shirt. He waves a feathered mask at my face. “Maschera?”
“Uh, no, grazie.”
“It’s okay.” The owner picks up another mask with bright ribbons and lace. “You try?”
Ben’s back to speaking to the man, but I don’t want to take a chance of him catching me watching him. So I take the mask from
the store owner.
“Okay,” I say, slipping it over my face.
From behind the mask, I take a couple of photos with my phone, trying to zoom in as much as I can, and send them to Athena.
I continue to observe Ben and the man talking. They’re looking at papers, but I’m too far away to see anything.
Is Ben really financing money for criminals? I don’t want to believe it. But it’s hard not to let my imagination put the pieces together.
My phone pings with a message from Athena.
Alessandro Moretti. President of Italia Sovereign Bank. Suspected ties to multiple criminal organizations.
I knew he was mafia. My smug satisfaction at being right is short-lived. This isn’t some random person meeting with a mafia
banker—it’s Ben.
Get as much information as you can.
Ben and Moretti stand. A sleek black car pulls up. Another man gets out and shakes Ben’s hand. Who’s that? I lower the mask,
setting it back on the rack, and then slip into the crowd. It’s much thicker now, the pre-festival events filling the streets
with vendors and tourists. I try to push my way through, but before I can get a good look or take another photo, the car is
gone.
“Bike?” the teen from earlier asks again, holding out a neon pink number with a basket.
I’m about to tell him no when I see the car with Ben inside stopped by a parade. Maybe I’m not too late. I shove a crumple of euros into the boy’s hand and hop on the bike. He says something in Italian as he hands me a helmet, but I’m already pedaling after the car.
Except this isn’t a normal bike.
“What the—” It surges forward with power. I look down at the black box. A motor?
I’m weaving through people, the wind slapping my cheeks, the handlebars shaking in my sweaty grip. How do I slow this thing
down? I dare a quick glance at the handles and there’s not one of those squeezie brake things.
A horn blasts and I look up in time to narrowly miss a pedestrian who gives me a hand gesture I can understand. I try to slow
down, stop pedaling, drag my feet on the pavement, but it’s no use. The car turns. I turn. The alleyway narrows. Another car
nearly clips me as it cuts me off.
There’s traffic, and like a true Italian, I navigate through the tight space between cars until I’m just close enough to look
inside the windows. When I do, I meet the confused looks of an older man and his wife.
I’ve lost him. Great.
I pedal back toward what I hope is the square, only to realize every street here looks the same. The winding alleys, the cobblestones, the charming shutters
and balconies—it’s a maze disguised as a postcard.
Panic nudges me to pedal harder. Huge mistake. This thing launches like it’s in a race. I’m rocketing downhill, the square
up ahead, tourists scattering as I blow past.
“Brakes. Brakes. Brakes.” I press everything—pedals, grips, prayer.
Finally, there’s a clearing ahead. But I’m still going too fast. The closer I get to it, the more people begin waving at me,
warning me to slow down. All I can do is grit my teeth and pretend like I’m in control. A few people yell. I yell back, “Sorry!”
I round the curve just in time to see the cart. Up. Close. And personal.
I slam into it, crashing into a pile of flowers, fruit, and . . . is that a fish? A bucket of water tips, soaking me from head to toe.
People rush over. I sit up slowly. There’s more Italian I can’t understand. And the absolute humility of sitting in a puddle
of water with lettuce in my hair and tomato stains on my tracksuit, looking like a Mediterranean salad.