Chapter 17 Cybil
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday, late afternoon
“There will be no delays!”
Ramirez’s voice slices through the tension that’s been building since the start of the meeting. I tighten my grip on the pen
in my hand and force myself to stay still as he picks up a gold letter opener and drives the tip into the desk he’s sitting
behind.
Across from him sits a man named Giancarlo. His English is clipped and a little broken, but the gist of his explanation is
clear—there’s been a delay in the build-out of a new manufacturing facility.
It feels like everyone in the room is holding their breath.
Or maybe it’s just me?
I’m still a little shaken from my conversation with Ben on the veranda. The dress, simple but beautiful, and perfectly my
size, might not have seemed like a big deal to him, but to me it is more than just a gift.
Ben doesn’t owe me kindness. He doesn’t owe me anything. Not after the words I overheard all those years ago—words that shaped
the very foundation of insecurities I apparently still carry.
I run my fingers across the hem of the fabric—so different from the blue monstrosity of the tracksuit currently crumpled in
a sad heap on my bathroom floor. This dress feels . . . safe.
So safe, in fact, I told Ben about my dad. About Celeste Harlowe. Things I never talk about. But the words just slipped out like some kind of accidental confession.
“We have an agreement,” Ramirez says, his voice snapping me back to the moment. “And there are consequences I’d hate to enforce
if the terms of our contract aren’t met.” He twirls the letter opener between his fingers. “I hear the quality assurance protocols
in Italy aren’t as thorough as they are in America. If the terms of that agreement aren’t met”—his gaze hardens on Giancarlo—“accidents
happen here, yes?”
My pulse quickens. That doesn’t sound like business. That sounds like a threat. Giancarlo doesn’t flinch. He’s built like
a man who carries bricks for fun—broad, solid, and definitely not the kind of guy who backs down easily. His hands look like
they’ve been used to pour concrete—or break jaws.
His jaw twitches as he gives a shallow nod.
“We’d hate to see that, right?” Ramirez smirks, eyes flicking to Sebastian and then Mr. Edmond.
Sebastian shifts in his seat, glancing at his dad. Mr. Edmond stays stoic, but there’s a flicker of unease in his eyes that
makes me nervous. As long as I’ve worked for Earl Edmond, he’s embodied power, wealth, and control. I’ve seen him bulldoze
billionaires without smudging his cuff links. But since this meeting started, that confidence has been . . . diluted. Like
someone swapped his espresso with weak decaf.
Before we left Dallas, I caught wind of the issue that cut Edmond’s meeting with Ramirez short at the museum. An issue with
one of Edmond’s longtime suppliers in Italy—a guy named Marcello. Apparently, shipments of a specialized concrete additive
stopped without warning. Ramirez blamed port delays. But after our meeting this afternoon, Edmond’s not buying it.
Now Giancarlo’s the one in the hot seat. He’s Edmond’s trusted project manager in Europe, but now it looks like Ramirez has
commandeered him, the way a mafia boss might borrow your favorite contractor—with threats and a smile.
Mr. Ramirez stabs the letter opener into the desk, and I flinch. His gaze darts to me, an icy smile playing on his lips. I straighten in my chair, refusing to cower even as a chill skirts across my skin.
“If Marcello needs a reminder how important this deal is, I’ll make sure the message is loud enough every man from here to
Rome will hear it.”
Giancarlo gives another tight nod, and with a flick of Ramirez’s fingers, he’s dismissed. Yeah, I’m pretty sure Marcello’s getting a horse head in his bed.
I shudder at the visual. This is not how I imagined the meeting going. But I should’ve known it wouldn’t involve quick notes and cappuccinos the second Ramirez
instructed us to leave our cell phones and laptops in our rooms. Sebastian looked ready to argue, but Mr. Edmond placed a
hand on his arm and gave the slightest shake of his head. That was enough. We followed orders.
Maybe Ramirez made the request to protect the deal’s confidentiality—but my gut says otherwise. This smells like suspicion.
So when he handed me a pen and paper, asking if I needed to take notes, I smiled and accepted out of courtesy . . . then didn’t
write down a single word. I don’t trust him not to cross-reference my bullet points with a bullet.
If I’m passing anything along to Athena, it’ll be from my memory. So far, what I’ve got is shaky at best: Something called
Aurelite-X is being imported into Italy for manufacturing. Of what? No clue. The conversation kept switching between English
and Italian like a cursed Duolingo challenge. Maybe that’s the point—keep everyone off balance. Keep us guessing.
Ramirez rises from his seat and buttons his suit jacket. The meeting is over and I release the breath I’ve been holding.
I wait until Mr. Edmond and Sebastian stand before inching toward the table where the paperwork sits. If I can get a glimpse
of what’s on it, just one detail, it might be enough to satisfy Athena. But Ramirez sweeps the documents into a folder and
locks it in the desk.
“And everything is set for the transfer of funds?” Sebastian asks, voice light but a little too eager.
Mr. Edmond shoots him a look—less reprimand, more resignation.
Ramirez claps Sebastian on the shoulder like they’re old friends, and Mr. Edmond’s sharp gaze tells me he doesn’t like it. “Money is the last thing you need to worry about. Craig Miller will ensure every dollar is accounted for and protected. All one billion of them.”
One billion dollars.
My stomach drops. What exactly is Craig freaking Miller going to do to protect that kind of money? For the last forty-eight hours, I’ve been slowly rebuilding a version of
him in my mind—piecing together the boy I used to know with the man who ordered me a dress so I wouldn’t feel humiliated.
The guy I just confided in about my dad and why I’d never let anyone make me feel powerless again.
And now? He’s working for a man who just threatened someone with a smile and might be moving blood money through this deal.
Athena was right. I need to stop romanticizing him and remember who Ben’s working for—and why I’m here.
Ramirez ushers us out of the office. “The villa staff has prepared a beautiful meal for our final evening here. Let’s go and
enjoy it.”
Yeah, because nothing says “Bon appétit” like veiled threats.
I glance back at the desk, pulse quickening. I don’t know what Aurelite-X is or what kind of deal Mr. Edmond and Sebastian
signed on to, but I know Athena’s willing to pay. And tonight I’m going to get into that locked desk.
I leave my room with my phone and key pick set stashed in my clutch. Just in case the perfect opportunity comes for me to
sneak into Ramirez’s office.
The scent of garlic and herbs drifts from the kitchen, curling through the villa’s ancient halls and reminding me I haven’t
eaten since my sad excuse for breakfast hours ago. My stomach growls in anticipation as I follow the corridor toward the dining
room.
I turn the corner, then stop.
Ben’s voice. It’s faint but unmistakable, coming from a small room just off the hallway. The door is mostly closed—but not all the way.
“If it has to be done tonight, I’ll handle it,” Ben says, his tone calm.
“I don’t want any loose ends,” Ramirez replies, and there’s a bite to his words. “It’s not personal. It’s just damage control.”
“Understood,” Ben says, his voice lower. Measured. “I’ve never let a liability interfere with a deal. No matter who it involves.”
The words land like a punch to the chest. A liability? What liability? Who?
Marcello? It has to be Marcello, right? Something about Ben’s tone sends a shiver down my spine. Calm. Authoritative. But
there’s an edge to it—too confident, too practiced. Like he’s not just familiar with Ramirez’s messes . . . he’s cleaned them
up before.
This is not the boy I remember. Or the man who bought me a dress like he still knew who I was. In this moment, with the low
timbre of his voice threading through the door and the warning in Ramirez’s tone still hanging in the air—I’m not so sure
of anything.
I back up a step, careful not to make a sound, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s sending me Morse code to get the heck
out of here. But I don’t. I stay. No, I take a step closer, barely breathing, trying to make out more—just one more word,
one more breadcrumb. But it’s silent.
Not the natural kind. The unnatural kind that only happens when you’re eavesdropping and suddenly remember that people eventually
stop talking and walk out of rooms. A chair scrapes, then I hear steps and the click of a door handle. Panic surges, sending
my brain into full alert. They’re coming out. I spin on my heel, heart launching into my throat as I consider which is more
suspicious—hiding in a closet or running.
“Cybil?”
I jump so hard I nearly knock over the decorative vase behind me. Sebastian stands a few feet away, looking at me like I’ve
grown a second head.
“You okay?”
“Nothing!” I say way too quickly, and he frowns. “I mean—”
The door behind me opens. Ramirez steps out first, followed by Rook and Ben. Ben’s gaze locks on mine instantly, and something
in his expression flickers—surprise? Concern? Mild murderous intent?
I slip my hand around Sebastian’s arm. “I was just on my way to find you for dinner.”
Sebastian glances between me and the room behind me, then gives me a weird little nod like he’s decided just to go with it.
Bless him.
Ben, on the other hand, gives me a dark look. Jealousy? The thought of that should not delight me the way it does as I watch
him walk away.
Ramirez’s eyes narrow slightly, then drift to Sebastian. “We’ll see you both at dinner.”