Chapter 19 Ben
Ben
Lagoverde, Italy
Friday night
The urge to knock on Cybil’s door is overwhelming. But I have a shadow—Pawson. I expected him to leave with Rook and find
Ramirez. But I can feel him tailing me as I walk past the dining room, empty of Sebastian and Mr. Edmond, and head to the
kitchen. I secure another piece of chocolate torte and head back to my room. My eyes flick toward her door, just for a second.
Just long enough to hope she’s safe behind it.
Rook’s voice echoes in my head. “See what you can find out from the assistant.”
It’s not a request. It’s an order. One I have no intention of following—at least not for Ramirez. But pretending like I will?
That’s going to get tricky. How do I look like I’m gathering information without putting more of a target on her back?
Instinct has me sweeping my room the second I step inside. Before dinner, I left the French doors to the balcony open. Nothing
looks disturbed, but the weight of Cybil’s ring in my pocket—and Rook’s command to use her—puts me on edge.
I set the slice of chocolate torte on the table and check the bathroom.
The wardrobe. Sweep a hand under the bed.
I run my fingers along the dresser, lamps, and bedside table like I’m expecting something to bite back.
A pair of reading glasses sits on top of Catcher in the Rye.
I pick them up, angling the hinge to confirm the tiny red light is still blinking. Good. The feed’s live.
I open the app on my phone and scrub through the grayscale footage. No one’s been in or out since I left for dinner. Still,
I don’t relax.
I remove my jacket and drape it over the chair. Loosen my tie. Under any other circumstances, I’d welcome the chance to get
closer to Cybil. That’s not a chore. It’s a dream I didn’t know still burned inside of me. The story she shared with me on
the veranda this afternoon—that little slice of her life felt like something sacred.
But now? If I could go back and undo everything since that night in the museum—including not having our lives reconnect—I’d
do it, if it meant keeping her safe. That’s the kicker though. If I hadn’t been there, she’d still be working for Mr. Edmond,
and Ramirez’s suspicions would still put her in danger.
I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion and jet lag setting in like cement. How long do I have to wait before I can cross the
hall and check on her without looking obvious? The chocolate torte sits where I left it—my flimsy excuse if someone catches
us talking.
If I was concerned about the man following me in town today, I need to be extra mindful of the ones watching me inside the
villa. One wrong move, and I won’t be the only one who pays for it.
A muffled yelp breaks through the quiet. My head snaps toward the balcony, and I’m on my feet instantly, pulling the door
open. Jasmine fills the air as I scan the darkness. It’s too thick to see anything clearly, but something’s out there.
Another sound—scuffling. And a . . . whimper?
I move to the edge of the balcony railing with light steps. There’s a scraping noise, and then I see her. Cybil. Pressed against
the other side of the railing, half buried in vines and trying very hard not to look guilty.
“What the heck are you doing?” I hiss.
She exhales hard, like a kid caught mid–cookie theft. When she finally looks at me, the guilt’s gone—just pure, unfiltered annoyance. “Oh, you know, just enjoying the night air.”
I assess her position—arms flexed tight on the railing, heels firmly planted on the cement ledge, dress wrinkled, twig in
her hair like a fashion choice gone wrong. She’s not in distress. Just busted.
My fingers close around the ring in my pocket. I shouldn’t engage—not with Ramirez already suspicious and looking for cracks.
But this is too good to pass up. Cybil’s one part chaos, two parts pride, and I’ve always been just dumb enough to poke a
hornet’s nest.
I glance around. No witnesses. “It is a nice night.”
She glares, her face flushed. “Do you mind helping me before I fall to my death?”
“Oh, you won’t die if you fall. Just broken bones, probably.” I lean casually over the railing. “Make sure you aim for the
bushes.”
She huffs. “Are you going to make me beg?”
I lift a brow. “Will you?”
“No.”
“Well, then.” I tap the railing and take a leisurely step back. “Enjoy yourself.”
She mutters something under her breath and starts shimmying sideways—until her foot catches on a vine.
Her yelp is the only warning I get.
I lunge, grabbing her arms just as she slips, my upper body yanked over the railing. My heart slams against my ribs as I strain
to haul her up. “Seriously, Cybil?” I grunt.
She kicks, trying to help. All that does is shift her weight—and send us both crashing backward onto my balcony.
I hit the tile flat, air knocked from my lungs. She lands squarely on top of me.
For a second, we just lie there, both breathing hard.
Then she smirks. “I don’t beg.”
She’s impossible. And I like it. Way too much.
The realization hits like a jolt—sharp and unsettling. Or maybe it’s something worse. Doesn’t matter. This is exactly what’s going to get me in trouble. What Rook noticed at dinner and what I need to shut down.
“Your elbow’s in my liver,” I wheeze.
Carefully, I lift her by the arms and roll her off me. The second the weight’s gone, I feel it—this weird unmoored sensation,
like she was an anchor I didn’t know I needed. And that right there? That’s the problem.
I roll to my side, push to my feet, and offer her a hand. She takes it. That’s a surprise. And it feels . . . good. Like maybe
her guard’s finally down.
But with Cybil, I’m not betting on it. I need to tread carefully.
“So as much as I love playing the hero,” I say, brushing off my shirt, “you want to tell me what you were doing out there?”
She avoids my eyes, smoothing her dress like it personally offended her. No answer.
I reach for her hand—lightly, a brush of my thumb over her palm—and she flinches. Pulls her hand back.
That’s when I notice her hands are raw, skin red and scraped. How long was she clinging to that ledge? And why? That last
question simmers, but I dismiss it—for the moment—to take care of her.
“Come on,” I murmur, gently tugging her into my room.
She resists.
“You’re welcome to try the ledge again, Billy.”
“Don’t call me that.” But the nickname does its magic. Always does. She storms past me like she’s in charge but makes a beeline
for the door.
“No, you don’t.”
I catch her momentum, my hand on her elbow, giving her a little spin like it’s a dance. Her hands land softly on my chest,
and for a second, everything stops. Our eyes lock. She starts to pull back, but I don’t let her.
My gaze drops to her right hand. The missing ring. This is my shot.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say quietly. “What were you doing on that ledge?”
Her fingers twitch against my shirt. If she had the ring, she’d be spinning it right now. She’s stalling. Buying time. Reaching
for a story.
And I already know—it’s not going to be the truth.
So I decide to help. “You weren’t trying to break in somewhere, were you?”
Her eyes go wide. “Are you feeling okay?” She presses the back of her hand to my forehead like she’s checking for a fever.
A beat passes.
Her hand lingers a second too long, then she yanks it back like I burned her. Like she felt the same current of electricity
I did.
“Stop raising your brows like that,” she snaps.
I lift them higher. “Like what?”
“Like that.” She scowls at me, cheeks flushed.
“You’re mad at my eyebrows?
“Only because you know how to use them.”
“Use them?”
She lets out a dramatic sigh and steps back, swatting the air between us like she’s trying to shoo away a swarm of bees—or
maybe just the crackling chemistry we’re pretending not to notice. “You’re insufferable,” she mutters. “Of course you don’t
get it. I raise my eyebrows and look like I’m being electrocuted. You do it and it’s all . . . smoldering.”
I let one brow dance up again. “Smoldering, huh?”
“You’re so annoying.”
“I’ll take that as a yes, you were breaking in.”
She crosses her arms. “I was not—”
She exhales hard, like I’m the one being ridiculous, and pushes away from me. “I was trying to help a cat.”
I blink. “A cat.”
She nods, straight-faced. “Yes. It was stuck on the ledge. Terrified. I couldn’t just leave it.”
“A cat.”
“Yes.”
“You hate cats.”
She falters—just a flicker—but recovers quickly. “I do not.”
I fold my arms. “You used to carry a water bottle on your hip like a gunslinger just to keep the barn cats away.”
“They were vicious.”
“They were kittens.”
I stare at her. She stares right back.
“Where is it now?” I gesture toward the balcony.
“Where’s what?”
“The cat?”
She hesitates. “It . . . ran away.”
I exhale through my nose. “Right.”
She’s lying. Cybil has hated cats since the day a feral barn kitten got tangled in her braids and took a fistful of hair with
it. But it’s not just the lie—it’s the anxiousness beneath it. My hand slips into my pocket and I close my fingers around
her ring. I should give it back. But I don’t.
If she was in Ramirez’s office looking for it, why lie about it? Rook’s words from earlier circle back, sharp and unwanted.
Is there truth in Ramirez’s suspicion that Edmond’s going rogue? And where does that leave Cybil?
A knot twists in my gut. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
She meets my eyes, but her smile shows up late. “Yes, it’s just been a long day, and I wasn’t planning to end it stuck out
on a ledge.”
“To save a cat.”
She lets out a breath. “Yes, Craig, to save a cat. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to go to my room and forget this day ever happened.”
My posture softens at her tone. I want answers, but something about the way she won’t look at me keeps me from pressing further.
She’s halfway to the door when she freezes. Her eyes lock on the slice of chocolate torte sitting on the table.
I notice. Of course I do. “You can have it,” I offer.
“I already told you—”
“You don’t like chocolate,” I finish. “But I thought maybe this would change your mind. I know you—”
“Why are you so determined to prove you know me?” She folds her arms tight across her chest.
The words hit harder than I expect. My voice is quieter when I say, “Why are you so determined to prove I don’t?”
The tension between us turns electric again, crawling under my skin and buzzing like a live wire. All I can think about is
what Rook asked me to do. If Edmond is playing Ramirez, maybe she’s in on it too.
But that doesn’t track. Not with the girl I remember. Not with the woman standing in front of me. “I know you,” I say, softer
now. “Or I did.”
Her arms fall to her sides. “I’m not the same girl.”
The words slice through me.
She turns to go, and I step ahead of her.
“Wait.”
“Be—Craig,” she corrects herself, and the exhaustion clings to her voice. “I’m sure your mind is spinning with all the ways
to tease me, but please—let this night end with a smidge of dignity.”
Guilt rips through me. Is that what she thinks I’d do? Tease her? Sure, I used to. When we were kids. But tonight it felt
like slipping back into something comfortable. Familiar. Like I just wanted her to look at me the way she used to—fiery, unfiltered.
With just enough teasing to give me hope.
Her posture is stiff, like she’s already bracing herself—against me. It hurts more than I want to admit. I open the door and
glance down the hall. It’s empty except for a carry-on suitcase parked outside her door. I step back and gesture. “I wanted
to make sure you were safe to leave my room.” I meet her eyes. “Integrity and dignity intact.”
There’s a pause—just a breath—where I think she’s going to say something. But her expression shutters and she walks out.
“Good night,” she says over her shoulder and disappears into her room, taking her suitcase with her.
I’m about to shut my door, but I see the cake. I’m not going to eat it, so I grab the plate and step into the hallway. I set
it on a table and go inside my room.
I shut the door, lean against it. The weight of her ring presses into my palm. I turn it over in my fingers.
Cybil’s lying.
Keeping secrets.
And secrets get people killed.
Pulling my cell phone out, I type a message to Ruby:
Get me everything you can find on Cybil Renee Langford.