Chapter 16 Ben
Ben
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday morning
I’m elbowing through the crowd to get closer to the commotion, and when I do, my heart nearly crashes through my rib cage.
Cybil. “Mi scusi, mi scusi.”
She’s sitting on the street, surrounded by bruised produce and stunned pedestrians. She blinks up at me like I dropped out
of the sky.
“B—”
“Are you hurt?” I cut her off, dropping to my knees. Her hair’s a mess, tomato smeared on her shirt, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
I reach out, fingers brushing her leg to check for injury, but she swats my hand away.
“Does it hurt anywhere?” I press. “Head? Limbs? Cracked ego?”
“Besides my pride?” she mutters, glancing around at the gawkers before narrowing her eyes on me. “What are you doing here?”
Her tone is sharp enough to draw blood. But I don’t answer—because I can’t. Because the real reason involves the man who was
following me. I’d spotted him watching us during the meeting. I needed to know who he was, so I declined Moretti’s offer to
join him and Marcello Vieri for lunch and circled back to the last place I saw the man.
I couldn’t find him and was on my way back to the villa. Then I heard the scream. The crash. Now I’m here, facing Cybil’s misdirected agitation.
“Cybil,” I say, steady and low, “I need you to hear me. Does anything feel broken?”
Before she can answer, the produce vendor storms over, Italian flying fast and furious. His precious tomatoes didn’t survive
her crash landing. I stand, pull out my wallet, and negotiate a peace treaty with euros.
“Puoi schiantarti e pagarmi,” he grumbles, counting the bills.
The crowd trickles away. Cybil’s already back on her feet, shouldering her purse and giving me the full view of her outfit.
The bright blue tracksuit is giving nineties rapper vibes, but the way she’s eyeballing me, I know to keep that to myself.
“Just . . .” She exhales, shoulders sagging. “Don’t.”
I grab the bike. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Your face speaks without words, Craig.” She looks herself over. “All I need is mozzarella and I’d be a caprese salad.”
My alias sounds wrong coming out of her mouth, and I suddenly hate hearing her say it. Especially after she almost said my
real name. “I like caprese salad.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, and instead of annoyance, I catch something heavier—defeat. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” She takes the bike from me. “The kid didn’t mention this stupid bike has no brakes.”
I eye the handlebars, then reach over and twist the grips backward. “They’re right here.”
“Great.” She steers it toward the sidewalk. “But I won’t be riding again.”
I fall in step beside her. She stops.
“You don’t have to follow me.”
“I’m not.” I tip my chin toward the main road. “I’m heading back to the villa. Same direction. You?”
Her sigh is all the answer I need. We walk in silence until we hit the piazza. Pedestrian traffic squeezes us to the edge.
I scan for the man I saw earlier, but he’s nowhere in sight.
Then I glance at Cybil.
She’s tugging at her tomato-stained jacket, head ducked to avoid the curious looks. I’ve seen this posture before—shoulders
curled in like she’s trying to disappear. She wore that same look the first summer I met her at Rex’s ranch. Showed up in
jeans too short and shoes with holes.
It wasn’t hard to spot poverty in Cypress Creek, but it wasn’t the worn clothes that burned the memory into my brain. It was
the way she wore the abandonment. That and the black eye she gave me when I looked at her with pity.
I’m not looking for another.
I scan the street. Spot what I need.
“Will you do me a favor?”
Cybil pauses, eyeing me with suspicion. “What?”
“Wait here. Just one minute. Please?”
“Why?”
I sigh. “Can’t you just trust me, woman?”
Her brows lift. “I don’t know, Craig. Can I?”
I step close. The move catches her by surprise, and I can see she wants to step back, put space between us, but she doesn’t
move. Just glares.
I lean in, close enough to feel her breath catch. “Keep saying my name like that and you’re going to blow my cover.” She shivers and I pretend I don’t feel it straight to my chest. Pretend my pulse isn’t
suddenly pounding in my ears. I reach up, pluck a piece of lettuce from her hair, and twirl it between my fingers. “One minute.
Don’t move.”
I jog across the street to a clothing store. A quick conversation with the clerk and I’m back out, scanning for her. She’s
still here. Tucked in the shade of an alleyway. She stayed.
But my smile vanishes when I spot him. Same guy from earlier. I am being followed. Except . . .
Slowing my pace, I weave through the congested sidewalks, keeping the man in my peripheral vision. And that’s when I notice—he’s not watching me. He’s watching her. Cybil.
My stomach knots. Ramirez doesn’t trust anyone. I expect to be watched. Followed. It’s why I cut off all connection with family
and friends outside of our FBI office for the last eighteen months. But Cybil? She’s not supposed to be a part of this. Not
really. Not like this.
I waste no time jogging back to meet her. “Thanks for waiting.” I lift the bike. “What do you say we ride this back to the
villa?”
Cybil gapes at me. “Are you crazy? I nearly died.”
“That’s because you didn’t know how to drive it. I do.” I glance toward the man still watching. Every second she hesitates
makes me more anxious to get her off the streets. “Don’t you have a meeting to get ready for?”
Resignation pinches her brows together and she groans. “Fine.”
I snap a quick selfie, ignoring her protests, and hope Ruby can ID the guy in the background as I shove the phone in my pocket.
“Hold tight,” I say over my shoulder.
Her hands hover around the seat, clearly searching for something to hold on to that doesn’t involve touching me. With a sigh,
I grab her hands and wrap them firmly around my waist.
I push the pedal, bringing the engine to life, and pull into traffic. Her grip tightens. It’s familiar and new all at once,
and as I leave the man behind us, I’m forced to remind myself that this can’t mean anything.
A few hours later, the sun slants low in the sky, casting long shadows across the villa’s white oak floors as I finish buttoning
my shirt. I haven’t seen Cybil since we got back to the villa. She jumped off the bike and bolted inside before I even had
a chance to turn it off.
The concierge handled returning the bike to the vendor, leaving me with nothing but the echo of her arms still wrapped around me. That memory had me distracted through my next meeting with a compliance officer, a guy willing to fast-track the shell companies Ramirez wants, no questions asked.
And now I’m suiting up for round two with Ramirez and Rook. This is my shot to deploy the air-drop device. If I can get Ramirez
to open the embedded file, we’ll find what we need to shut this whole thing down. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out a
way to get Cybil back in my arms without risking her life or mine.
There’s a knock at my door, and I check my reflection before opening it.
Cybil stands there, fuming. “Did you do this?”
I blink. “What?”
“This.” She gestures at the black dress she’s wearing. She looks incredible. “It was delivered to my room after we got back
to the villa.”
“Was it?”
She grabs my shirt and hauls me down the hall to the veranda like I’m a misbehaving child, then checks over both shoulders
before turning on me. “Did you buy this dress for me?”
My face must give me away.
“I don’t need your pity,” she snaps, poking my chest.
I gently take her hand. “I remember your right hook, Billy.”
“Don’t call me that.” She snatches her hand back, looking around. “Someone could hear you.”
She’s right. I know. But that nickname—there’s an intimacy in it that makes the risk worth it. Almost.
No ID on the man. No connection to Ramirez.
If anything could keep my focus off Cybil’s touch, it’s the text message from Ruby about the picture I sent her. If he’s American,
he should’ve popped up in the system. So who is he? Ruby is going to run him through Interpol next.
Until I have an answer, I need to make sure anything that happens between me and Cybil is professional. At least to anyone
watching . . .
I shrug. “It’s nothing.”
A fiery spark lights her eyes. “It’s expensive.”
“It’s a gift.”
She stands there, hair clipped back, a breeze catching the faint scent of her perfume. Her makeup is light, but she doesn’t
need much. Her natural beauty always had a way of driving my pulse crazy—especially when she’s staring me down.
“An expensive gift,” she says.
“I was trying to help,” I say, shrugging like I didn’t put way too much thought into a black dress I picked out in under ninety
seconds. “If it makes you feel better, you can pay me back.”
She gives me a long, flat look. “Says the guy who probably keeps a Swiss bank account in his sock drawer.”
“You know,” I say, fighting a grin, “if the dress hadn’t worked out, you could’ve rocked that blue tracksuit at your meeting.
It had a real ‘I just wrestled a produce truck’ vibe.”
Cybil’s face goes completely blank. “If you ever bring up that tracksuit again, I will end you.”
I smirk. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“This is Italy, Craig. They don’t just make pasta from scratch. They make problems disappear.”
The smile freezes on my face.
I think she’s joking.
Probably.
Maybe.
She walks to the railing, her heels clicking with purpose. The sun throws a soft gold across the villa’s balcony, and for
a second, it’s almost peaceful. Instinct and years of training tell me the best time to gather intel is when someone’s guard
is down.
“So,” I say casually, leaning beside her, “how’d your meetings go?”
“Fine,” she says with all the enthusiasm of a TSA agent confirming I’m not smuggling an extra ounce of liquid in my carry-on.
“You done for the day?”
“One more.” She glances sideways, eyes cool. “And you? Meeting another billionaire who believes paying taxes is a suggestion?”
I force a smile, but it doesn’t reach. I should be relieved. It means she’s bought the cover. That I’ve done my job—convinced
her I’m exactly who I say I am. But it still lands like a gut punch. The way she’s looking at me like I’m the kind of man
she’s spent her life avoiding.
“I’m just doing the job I was hired to do,” I say quietly.
She lifts a shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Craig.”
My jaw tightens. I should let it go. But I don’t. “You mean the same kind of men as your boss?”
That gets her attention. Her head turns sharply. For a beat, neither of us says anything. The silence between us is thin,
stretched taut.
Then she smiles—a dangerous, diplomatic thing. “Meet any interesting people in town today?”
“Just an old friend,” I say, letting it land.
She narrows her eyes slightly, then smirks. “Oh? Must’ve made quite an impression—you’re still alive.”
“Day’s not over and she did just threaten to have me erased from the Italian countryside.”
“I stand by that.”
We fall quiet for a beat, and I wonder if she feels it too—that old zing, the one that used to spark between us like a live
wire when we were too young to know what to do with it. I try not to stare, but something in the curve of her mouth or the
way she shifts her weight makes me think she remembers too.
A pair of doves coos somewhere overhead. Music and chatter drift up from the piazza. She exhales slowly, her fingers absently
spinning the gold band on her thumb.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
“You don’t have to—”
“Please.” She cuts me off with a glance. “Just let me.”
I do because something in her voice tells me this isn’t just about the dress.
“After my dad’s accident,” she begins, her tone measured, “his company paid my mom a settlement. I don’t know how much exactly. But I overheard my aunt and uncle talking once . . . said it should’ve been enough to take care of us.”
She’s still spinning the ring. The gold flashes in the sunlight like it wants to say more than she does.
“My mom trusted this woman—Celeste Harlowe. Called herself a financial advisor. Told my mom the best way to protect the money,
to make it last forever, was to invest it. Said we’d never have to worry again.”
I already know where this is going. My stomach knots anyway.
“She disappeared,” Cybil says, voice flat now. “Took everything. Every last cent. It was a scam. She was a scam.”
She turns to me then, not angry, just matter-of-fact. “Do you know what people with money have that people without money don’t?”
I hold her gaze, already bracing for the answer.
“Security. Stability. A permanent address that anchors them in an unpredictable world.”
And just like that, I see her—really see her. Not just the beautiful woman in the black dress. Not the assistant with a sharp
mouth and a sharper mind. But the girl who showed up every summer, shoulders pulled in like armor.
I never knew what to say back then. I still don’t.
“Is that why you work so hard for Mr. Edmond?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. She meets my eyes for a second, then looks away toward the lake. “Working for Mr. Edmond
allows me to make sure I’m never taken advantage of again.”
There’s a bite in her voice. An edge that wasn’t there a second ago. And I hate that it’s real. That someone hurt her family
like that. That my alias is a reminder of the pain.
I open my mouth to say something, but a throat clears behind us, and I turn.
Edmond stands a few feet away. His eyes land on me, sharp and assessing, before softening when they shift to Cybil.
“Are you ready, Cybil?”
She nods and follows him back into the villa without another word.
I stay where I am, gripping the balcony railing, frustrated. Ruby warned me to be careful. To keep my distance. Stick to the mission. But it’s not just my mission anymore. If we take Ramirez down, and if Edmond’s part of it—even on the fringe—we take him down too.
Cybil will lose everything. Again. And this time, I’ll be the one responsible for breaking her.