Chapter 17 Cybil #2
And with that, they walk past us. Rook gives me a lingering look that makes my skin crawl. Ben’s gaze lingers too—but there’s
something else in his eyes. Something I can’t afford to trust right now.
I smile wider. This is fine. “Should we go?”
Sebastian begins to lead me away when I spot someone standing at the back of the hallway. The same man from last night when
Ben and I arrived at the villa.
“Who’s that?” I ask Sebastian quietly.
He glances over, then shrugs. “Ramirez’s security.”
“Security? He looks like a guy who buried the last person who called him security.”
Sebastian snorts. “Yeah, well. Don’t make eye contact.”
It’s moments like this when Sebastian gives off an older-brother energy—equal parts protectiveness and smart-aleck commentary—that
I almost forget he’s also up to his neck in this mess. I don’t know how much he’s in on, but I know he’s not clueless.
The dining room exudes a kind of rustic elegance that fits the picturesque countryside stretching beyond the open arched windows.
We’re seated around a stunning white oak table set with fine china, crystal glassware, and a centerpiece overflowing with fresh-cut roses, lilies, and sprigs of lavender.
Ramirez and Mr. Edmond take their places at opposite ends of the table, while Ben and Jimmy Rook sit directly across from me and Sebastian.
The only one missing is the creepy guy from the hallway, and I’m afraid I’m too hungry to be concerned, but a part of me wonders if he’s on his way to visit Marcello.
Ben catches my eye, holding my gaze just long enough to make me wonder if he knows I overheard him. Then he smiles. Easy.
Charming.
I break eye contact when the chef arrives. He introduces the menu in elegant Italian, then switches to English with a reverent
grin. The first course is bruschetta with heirloom tomatoes and basil oil, followed by hand-rolled pasta in a truffle cream
sauce, veal osso buco with gremolata, and wine pairings that probably cost more than my car.
“And for dessert,” he announces, practically glowing, “a decadent chocolate hazelnut torte with Italian cream.”
Ben doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take hers.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t like chocolate, right?”
I narrow my eyes at his smug face. “Right.”
Sebastian chokes on his wine. “You don’t hate—”
I stomp on his toe under the table.
He yelps. “What the heck, Cy—”
“I’ll be skipping dessert tonight, thank you,” I say through gritted teeth, not missing the look Ben sends me.
Dinner service starts immediately, and while the bruschetta is fresh and bursting with flavor, the table conversation is as
stale as expired crackers. You’d think, considering someone named Marcello might be eating his next meal with a knife in his
back, there’d be a little more spark.
But maybe that’s just the anxiety still twisting my stomach into knots. Ramirez’s threat plays on a loop in my head—right
alongside his oh-so-casual assurance that Craig Miller would handle the billion-dollar deal. And Mr. Edmond? He’s been off
all night. Odd behavior for someone about to be a billion dollars wealthier.
I keep stealing glances at Ben, sharp in his tailored suit, a single curl falling over his forehead like it’s been placed
there for the sole purpose of screwing with my focus. Who is Bennett Bradley now? The man who brushes shoulders with criminals like it’s no big deal. Is that just part of his job description?
“Did you enjoy your time in town, Cybil?” Mr. Edmond asks.
My cheeks warm. “It was . . . eventful,” I say, reaching for my wine like it might erase the memory of this morning’s crash
landing into a veggie cart. “I wish I had more time to explore.”
“You should rent a bike,” Ben says smoothly.
My gaze snaps to him. He’s hiding a smirk behind his water glass.
“Bikes aren’t really my thing,” I say through a tight smile. “Too unpredictable.”
Ben sets down his glass. The gleam is unmistakable—and infuriating. “Shopping more predictable? I heard blue tracksuits are
in style.”
I want to stab him. Just a little. Nothing fatal. Maybe something in the arm. But I settle for stabbing my pasta instead.
I’ve already given up chocolate—he’s not worth giving up carbs for too. Maybe if it were brussels sprouts. The veal arrives next, tender and rich, but I’m too busy skewering Ben in my head to appreciate it.
“I like your dress,” Mr. Edmond says, tossing me a kind smile. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Much better choice than a tracksuit,” Sebastian adds, throwing Ben a look.
Ben’s eyes remain on me. “I agree.”
His voice is low, steady, and aimed like a dart to my sternum. I pretend to be fascinated by my plate, but not before I catch
the slow curve of his smile. My pulse thuds in my ears, and I force myself to breathe. Why is it so easy for him to rattle
me? This—whatever this is—has to stop before someone notices.
Someone like Ramirez.
I glance down the table to find him watching us. Not smiling. Not speaking. Just watching.
“So, Cybil . . .” Ramirez says, swirling his wine. “What’s your background? How long have you been working as Earl’s assistant?”
“Executive assistant,” Mr. Edmond corrects him smoothly. “But not for long, right, Cybil? One day I hope to promote her to
in-house counsel.”
Ben’s eyes cut to me, brows lifting. “You’re a lawyer?”
“Not yet.” I force a smile, hating the flush I can feel rising. “I’m studying for the LSATs and working to save money for
law school.”
Ben’s watching me. And for one dizzying second, he looks . . . impressed?
“Cybil here is a rare gem,” Mr. Edmond adds, lifting his glass. “Understands the value of hard work. Refuses to accept help—even
though she’s an asset to me and my company.”
“My father would be lost without her,” Sebastian says deadpan. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”
Mr. Edmond ignores him. I wish I could ignore the guilt crawling under my skin. Because he’s not wrong. I have worked hard. Paying back loans. Taking care of my mom. Pushing myself every day to outrun the chaos I was born into. But
I’m also sitting at a table with a man who has no idea I’m spying on him. Who thinks I’m loyal. Who doesn’t know I’ve been
feeding information to a private agency in exchange for money I desperately need.
I glance away and toy with the ring on my thumb, a subtle reminder of what I need to do—find an excuse to get away from here
and into that office.
I just need a little distraction. The servers remove our empty plates and bring out the chocolate dessert that looks so decadent
it might be worth killing for. I glare at Ben. This is his fault.
Unfortunately, it’s Sebastian who’s going to take the brunt of my frustration. He lifts his glass of wine, and before I can
talk myself out of it, I “accidentally” bump his elbow with the grace of a toddler learning to use a spoon.
The timing is chef’s kiss—his arm jerks, and a glorious wave of red wine arcs straight into my lap. Silverware clatters as
I shove back from the table with an exaggerated gasp. Everyone is watching me, and even though I’m the one who orchestrated
the mayhem, heat creeps up my neck.
“What was that, Cybil?” Sebastian stares at me, holding out a napkin like it might rescue my dignity. “Why’d you hit me?”
“I was reaching for the uh . . . knife.” I dab at my lap, but there’s really no point. Ten out of ten for spectacle, zero for subtlety. “I should clean this up,” I say, already pushing back my chair.
“There’s a restroom around the corner,” a server offers.
“Perfect, thank you.” I hand him the wine-soaked napkin and grab my clutch. “If you will excuse me.”
I don’t wait for permission and hurry out of the dining room like I can’t outrun my embarrassment fast enough. Once I round
the corner, I pause. Wait. Listen. Conversation in the dining room resumes, forks clink, and I’m mad all over again about
missing out on that dessert.
There’s laughter—probably at my expense. Good. Let them. If they’re too busy enjoying my clumsiness, that means I can do what
I need to do.
I walk past the restroom and head straight for the office. One quick look over my shoulder and I try the doorknob. Unlocked.
I slip inside. The office is quiet and dark, save for moonlight slipping through the French doors. It’s almost pretty—if I
weren’t about to commit corporate espionage in a merlot-soaked dress.
At the desk, I check the drawer. Still locked. I remove the key pick set from my clutch. A chill skitters over my skin as
Ramirez’s voice echoes in my head. “Accidents happen here, yes?”
I can do this. I will do this. My fingers move to my thumb out of habit and freeze. The ring’s gone. My heart seizes until I remember I moved it
after my little veggie-cart crashing incident. Right thumb to left thumb. I slide it back where it belongs. It’s still loose,
but the weight of it on my right thumb steadies me. I can do this.
And no one needs to wake up with a horse head in their bed—not even Marcello. Hopefully.
With quickness, I pop the lock on the drawer and quietly slide it open. There it is. The folder. I pull out my phone and flip
it open, spreading the manufacturing plans across the desk. Everything’s in Italian except for a few diagrams that might as
well be IKEA instructions.
I start snapping photos. One page. Two. I’m halfway through when—
Footsteps. Heavy ones. Someone’s coming.
My gaze flicks down to the papers on the desk and blood rushes to my ears. If I’m caught in here, there’s no excuse Ramirez will buy that doesn’t end with me in a pair of cement boots at the bottom of the Lagoverde lake. Does Prada make a cement boot for their mobster clients?
I freeze, heart racing as a shadow blocks the light under the door. Someone’s coming in.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope—
I scoop up the papers, shove them into the folder, and close the drawer—except I don’t, because I catch my thumb in it. Pain
rockets up my hand. Tears spring to my eyes—pain? fear? Probably both—but I bite down on a scream.
I stumble toward the French doors that open onto a private veranda overlooking the manicured lawn and sparkling pool—one story
up and absolutely not designed for emergency escapes. I wrench open the door, slip outside, and reach back to close it when—
Clink.
No.
My ring. My dad’s ring. It slides off my thumb, hits the floor, and disappears into the dark. I drop to my knees, but it’s
useless. I can’t see a thing, and I don’t have time.
The office door creaks open.
I don’t have a choice.
My heart shatters as I leave the ring behind.