Page 19 of Deal with the Devil
“How would you know that?”
He gives a shrug. “I have a feeling. But Joe wasn’t what upset you at the gala. He wasn’t even there. So what did?”
“You’re too observant for your own good.”
“It pays off in many ways. You’d be surprised, dolcezza.” He winks at me and makes my stomach flip.
“It was Charles Whitmore. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him?—”
“Head of content for ANC,” Rafael interrupts smoothly, unsurprised by the name drop. “He was there last night. Chuck is confused about the times; he still thinks it’s the early 2000s where he can say and do whatever he pleases with no repercussions. What did he say to you?”
I hesitate half a second, realizing telling Rafael this kind of information feels a lot like snitching. It feels a lot like I’ll look at the news headlines tomorrow and see one about Charles Whitmore being found mysteriously slain in cold blood.
“He was just… he called my work at Metro ‘charming little pieces’. He said he hoped I understood my role in the process. That was when he wasn’t calling medoll.” I let out a sigh and push my shoulders back, meeting Rafael’s gaze from across the table. “But I told him off. I gave him a piece of my mind. So it’s been handled.”
“Chuck has a way of… crossing lines,” Rafael says simply. He cracks his neck as if agitated by the thought of the news mogul. His expression has darkened, tightening with tension. Then it vanishes like he’s realized he’s given away too much. He scrubs at his jaw and adds a half-grin. “But I’m sure he’ll realize the error of his ways someday. I bet you had him looking like a fool when you told him off.”
“I’d like to think so. I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.”
“You have a way with words, dolcezza. Trust me, the stronzo probably turned red in the face.”
I chuckle, sipping from my wine. “But I’ve talked enough about myself. What about you? You… you look great. Have you been well?”
He gives a nod. “I’ve been as well as can be. I’ve missed you… us…”
“You made a choice. I adapted to that choice.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue, especially as the wine enters my system and warms me up from the inside—I want to ask himwhy.
A real answer, not the watered down reasoning he gave in the letter he wrote me and left on the bedside table.
He claimed being with him put me in danger; it cost me career opportunities, and he refused to hold me back.
But it has rung hollow from the moment I read that damn letter. It felt like the excuses you give when you’re covering up the real truth that’s much uglier.
“You have,” he admits. “You’ve adapted well. You’ve moved on without me. Can I really be upset that you have? I don’t have that right anymore.”
“You won’t ever again. Hurt me once, Rafael, shame on you. But hurt me twice…”
“I realize that. I squandered that chance with you. I don’t expect another chance. Honestly, I’m surprised you’ve even agreed to dinner…”
Silence settles over the table for a moment.
I drop my gaze to where I’ve folded my cloth napkin into my lap.
The truth is, I came here tonight with the full intention of extracting information from Rafael. My investigation has seen new life breathed into it, and Rafael is obviously a key component I’ve long ignored out of personal feelings and bias.
But as the wine leaves me flushed and we talk in such an intimate setting, my goal is already slipping out of focus.
The proof that Sigler’s niece gave me is circumstantial. There’re still a thousand different explanations that could possibly answer the questions that have arisen.
It doesn’t mean Rafael is affiliated with the Bellucci crime family. It doesn’t mean he’s a gangster himself.
Jumping to any kind of conclusions would be foolish.
“I’ve realized we’re probably always going to have a connection,” I say finally, braving a glance over at him. “It’s just one of those things some exes share.”
He nods along as our server arrives with our food. He’s ordered a ribeye that looks juicy enough it might still be alive while I’ve gone with the beef tenderloin and garlic mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus.
