Page 93 of Tempted By the Devil

“Later tonight,dolcezza,” he vows, nipping at my ear, and I shudder again.

“Rafael,quanto è speciale vederti!”

I recognize the voice almost immediately, though it takes me a second longer to remember from where. We both look up to find none other than Anthony Citti walking toward us with a fat grin and his arms open wide.

The Italian Santa Claus had been so welcoming and gracious to Jayla and me during our time in Sicily. Always with a cigar in his mouth, he’d talked our ears off about Sicily and had made us laugh roasting his son Anthony, his wife Olivia, and others in their circle.

I’m lost for a second as he approaches and Rafael drops his arms from my hips.

What is Anthony doing here?

“What are you doing here?” Rafael asks, voicing my thought aloud. He’s as perplexed as I am, except his features tighten and his jaw sets. He steps forward to intercept him before he can ever reach me. “You mentioned nothing about returning to the States.”

“Hai mai sentito parlare di sorprese, amico mio?”

Rafael’s only reaction to his question is the flex of the muscle in his jaw. I look between the two men, more lost than ever about what’s going on.

“Ah, and there she is!” Anthony goes on in his passable English. His grin widens at the sight of me. “I see you have finally locked it down! She’s as beautiful as ever.Vale tutto il duro lavoro che hai fatto per averla. Ciao, bella.”

Though I understand nothing else he’s said, I give a nod to acknowledge his bright hello.

But I’m about as frosty as Rafael is—my brows are knitted and I’m tensed up. Just another red flag to add to the growing pile. Who is Anthony Citti and what is his relationship with Rafael, anyway?

“Let’s talk. Privately,” Rafael bites out. He strides forward without waiting for an answer from Anthony.

Anthony merely chuckles and then moves to follow.

I’m shaking my head watching the two of them disappear among the crowd of celebratory party guests. All around me the party rages on. No one any wiser to some of the subversive things potentially at play.

But I’m a journalist for a reason.

When I pick up on something amiss, I have to know what’s going on. I have to get the scoop.

So as Rafael and Anthony head inside one of the yacht’s cabins, I’m giving it a second and then trailing in their wake.

I’ll have to find some way to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Allowing for a minute or two to pass, I casually walk up on the door where Rafael and Anthony disappeared into. It’s some kind of private office for Rafael.

No one else is around. The narrow corridor is empty, echoes of the party above loud, but not to be outdone by my racing heartbeat. I take a deep breath and press my ear to the door.

“We’ve been through this!” Rafael snarls, anger bathing each word. “This is my operation. My business! You stay out of it.”

“Mio amico, you seem threatened by a simple visit. I’m here on friendly terms.”

“Bullshit. Run that tired line on somebody more green. You mess with what’s mine and you will see the consequences!”

“Threats spoken so freely. You may want to calm down.”

“I have it under control.”

“Nessuno ha detto il contrario. Io credo in te, ma è stato lui a chiedermi di venire qui.”

Both of them pause as if they’ve sensed something amiss. I freeze too, gently clamping my hand over my mouth. Have they realized someone’s standing outside the door? Do they know I’m listening in?

I’m a second away from abandoning my spy mission altogether. Quickly, before it becomes impossible to make a believable escape from the scene of the crime.

But I never get a chance to.

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