Chapter 22 Cybil
Cybil
Lagoverde, Italy
Saturday morning
This is a nightmare. No, really. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of people are swarming the streets in elaborate masks. It’s a Tim
Burton movie come to life. Carved smiles, vacant eye holes, all popping up around corners like some kind of twisted Renaissance-themed
jump scare.
I look over my shoulder and groan. My real problem isn’t the masked crowd surrounding me but the tall man with dark, dangerously
tousled hair and a smile that could melt gelato faster than the Italian sun. He just ruined the exchange with the courier,
and now he’s following me. Again.
Ben and his sharp eyes, his quiet interrogation, the way he tilts his head just so—like he can still see through me after
all these years. He questioned why I was in the office, why I wasn’t chasing after my ring, and then—then—he hit me with that offhand remark about working for Earl Edmond.
“You’re too smart to be working for someone like Earl Edmond.”
It wasn’t just a compliment. It was a loaded one. And for a split second, I wanted to believe that Ben had changed, that maybe he was finally seeing me as more than the
girl I was all those summers ago.
But like clockwork, he ruined it.
“Finding you out on that ledge was reckless.”
The cold prickle I felt when that word left his mouth runs down my spine again. I know exactly what it means and I’m right
back there. Young, na?ve, waiting under the oak tree, holding my breath, heart too full of something hopeful—until I heard
his voice.
“Come on, Rex. She’s a mess. Reckless.”
I exhale sharply, shoving aside the sting of his words. Maybe he’s right—maybe I am reckless. But not in the way he thinks.
Letting myself believe he’s changed, that I can afford to feel anything for him, that’s reckless. And I don’t have time for it.
I have a job to do.
Lose Ben.
Find the courier.
Give him my phone.
And leave every stupid, lingering feeling for Ben in the dust where it belongs.
Unfortunately, Ben spots me like he has some kind of built-in-tracking radar, and my annoyance doubles. I weave through the
crowd, determined to shake him. Why is he following me? Why does he have to make everything complicated? And why, for the
love of all things sane, is there still a stupid soft spot for him in my heart?
I’m so tangled up in these questions—in him—that I completely miss the curb and nearly wipe out a children’s puppet show. A marionette loses an arm, a kid screams, and
an Italian grandmother levels me with a side-eye so sharp it could cut pasta. I give an apologetic wave and try to melt into
the crowd.
“Cybil!”
Nope. Not turning around.
“Wait!”
Too late. His voice catches up with me, all warm and golden and inconvenient.
I whirl around. “Why are you following me?”
He lifts his hands. “Because I want to apologize.” He sighs. “And because you just amputated a puppet. Statistically speaking, you’re due for another near-death experience.”
I glare at him. “Do you have some kind of hero complex? Finance not thrilling enough, so now you moonlight as a disaster chaperone?”
“I’d prefer if you keep both feet on the ground and maybe stay away from motorized bikes,” he says, way too sincerely. “Besides . . .
I just got you back in my life. I’d rather not lose you to a marionette-related homicide.”
Oh, come on. I will not swoon at that. I will not. I can feel my heart caving—
Cybil Langford, do not give in to his words. Or the way he’s looking at you. Stay strong, girl.
“I’m not in your life, Ben. Our paths crossed because of our jobs. That’s all.”
His face flickers with something—regret—but it’s gone before I can confirm. “Even so, I know what it’s like, working for men
like Earl Edmond. I just hope he appreciates what you’ve given up for him.”
I stop. Turn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” His voice is casual. Too casual. “High-powered clients make high-powered messes. Sometimes they ask
the impossible. And sometimes we say yes without realizing we’re selling off little pieces of ourselves.”
“Mr. Edmond is good to me.” I hold his gaze. “I have no regrets.”
He studies me like I’m an equation that doesn’t quite add up. His words stir something unwelcome in my chest, but I shove
it down. I can’t afford to let him get in my head or work his way deeper into my heart. I don’t wait for more. I turn on my
heel and slip into the crowd—because I have a job to do.
Lose Ben. Find the courier. Make the drop.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel him there, trailing me like a shadow I can’t shake.
“I know you’re following me.” He’s close enough that I know he can hear me over the noise of the crowded street.
“I’m not.”
“That’s not what it looks like.”
“I’m walking back to the villa.”
“You can walk on the other side of the street.”
“It would be easier to cross the Red Sea. On foot. Carrying a donkey.”
My lips twitch against my will. No. Don’t smile. Don’t you dare smile. But it’s impossible. I’ve missed this—missed him. The thought sneaks in before I can stop it, and I shove it down just as
fast.
This is not the time for nostalgia.
My phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Athena.
Keep walking. Courier will find you.
Sure, no problem, Athena.
Just as soon as I lose Ben.
I pick up my pace, weaving through the crowded streets, past tourists snapping photos and vendors waving masks in the air.
I just need a clear path. A distraction.
Taking a corner, I’m stopped by an explosion of confetti in my face, temporarily blinding me. When my vision clears, I’m surrounded
by a mob of overly enthusiastic Italian women fawning over me like I’m their long-lost daughter—and honestly, I’m scared.
“La sposa! La sposa!”
The women cheer and one of them puts a delicate white veil over my head and another shoves a bouquet into my hands. It doesn’t
take a degree in Italian to figure out that la sposa sounds a lot like spouse—add the veil, the flowers, and the sheer enthusiasm radiating off this crowd, and it feels like I’m being swept into the
Italian version of a shotgun wedding . . . probably with a side of cannoli.
I try to back away, but another woman in a “World’s Best Nonna” shirt—who has the biceps of a retired wrestler—clamps onto
my shoulders and pushes me forward.
“Wait, I’m not—”
“Shh, tradition,” Wrestler Nonna insists, patting my cheek before beaming at the onlookers. “Che bellissima!”
I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know how it’s happening. All I know is that within seconds, I’m being thrust into the enthusiastic crowd. I have a death grip on my phone.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and see Ben trying to get to me, but the crowd is too thick and blocking his every advance.
He angles his attention to me and mouths, What is happening?
I can’t help but laugh. It’s not funny. Well, it kind of is, but how in the world is the courier going to find me?
A deep, theatrical voice suddenly bellows over the noise: “Dovè la mia bellissima sposa?” And then in English, “Where is my
beautiful bride?”
The crowd parts, and striding toward me—towering over the revelers like some kind of Venetian god—is a man in a massive wolf
mask.
The fur-covered monstrosity is intricately detailed, a fusion of elegant craftmanship and straight-up horror movie. His deep
crimson cloak flairs dramatically behind him, exposing a very well-toned chest.
The mask’s golden eyes lock onto mine, and for one horrified second, I think the guy might be some unhinged romantic lunatic
about to whisk me away to his underground lair. Before I can back away, he sweeps me into an over-the-top dip, my veil fluttering
dramatically as the crowd goes wild.
“Bacio! Bacio!”
I have no idea what they’re chanting, but the hungry look in the wolf’s eyes has me nervous. “Bacio?”
“Kiss,” he growls and delivers a wolfish smile that tells me how he got this role.
I choke.
“Bacio! Bacio!”
This was definitely not part of the plan.
I spot Ben pushing through the crowd, but a group of men in elaborate animal masks—foxes, ravens, and a particularly menacing
boar—hold him back. His jaw tightens, his shoulders bunch, and the death glare he’s sending to the wolf-masked man gripping
my waist practically crackles with rage.
A warmth spreads through me. Oh yeah. He looks very much like he’s jealous. I like it.
The wolf-man grins, winks, then twirls me straight into a swirling mass of identically veiled festival brides. Their masked partners sweep in, linking arms as we’re spun into a choreographed procession down the street. One of them—tall, steady—catches my wrist before I can break away.
Behind me, Ben is trying to push past the animal-masked men, his sharp exhale carrying all the way to me. I can feel the frustration rolling off him even from here.
This wasn’t my plan, but it’s working.
Now, to escape my dance partner.
“Excuse me.” I try to pull my arm free, but he holds on, guiding me smoothly through the steps.
“I heard you like caffè corretto alla lavanda.”
Oh. Oh. My pulse kicks up. The courier.
“Yes,” I murmur.
He smiles, spins me under his arm, and as our hands meet again, I feel something cool press into my palm. A cell phone. In
one seamless motion, I slip him mine. Another twist, another turn, and just like that—he’s gone.
A slow, smug grin spreads across my face. With a casual flick of my wrist, I toss my bouquet into the air and vanish into
the festival.
Better luck next time, Ben.