Page 46 of Deal with the Devil
Sleep comes in fitful increments where I toss, turn, then spring up heaving panicked breaths and staring in the dark as if I’ll wake from this nightmare.
I never do.
Over the next few days, I’m confined within the same four walls.
Il Diavolo was right that his staff would provide me with what I need. They come at various intervals, dropping off fresh changes of clothes and trays of food. They answer no questions, though they also speak little to no English, which means they couldn’t even if they wanted to.
The first two days, I refuse to eat.
The trays remain untouched on the opposite side of the room, even as my stomach gurgles desperately. On day three, as it growls and feels like it’ll soon start eating itself, I realize I’m only punishing myself.
Besides, one of the maids who frequents my room—whose name I learn is Daniela—threatens to tell Il Diavolo about the missed meals.
At least that’s what I think she means when she delivers breakfast on the third morning and fumbles through a few English words.
The last thing I want is another confrontation with Il Diavolo. I’d be happy if I never had to see him again. If I never had to think about him ever again.
Of course, it’s impossible when I’m locked away in a bedroom for days with little else to do but overanalyze every excruciating detail of the situation I’ve found myself in.
I’ve stopped thinking of him as Rafael altogether.
He’s yet to confirm his identity, but I’m not sure it even matters at this point. Rafael Calderone was no normal businessman; I discovered this for myself as I started digging into his past. He’s not only affiliated with the Bellucci family, he seems to have become the man he is todaybecauseof the crime family.
He’s a mobster.
But still, even now, there’s a part of me that wonders what if… what if there’s something I’m missing?
What if the man behind the mask isn’t who I think it is?
Il Diavolo smells nothing like Rafael. I’d know his scent anywhere. I know hiseyes. The spark that lives in them.
Nothing about Il Diavolo reminds me of Rafael, other than the fact he’s a tall, broad-shouldered Italian with dark hair and clean-cut suits, but those things aren’t exactly unique.
I just can’t make sense of why he would bother making me fall for him. What was the point of tricking me into a relationship? What purpose did any of it serve?
Il Diavolo doesn’t strike me as a man who wastes time. Every action seems to have a purpose behind it, yet I’m supposed to believe he spent weeks courting a woman for no reason at all?
It doesn’t add up.
“Does it matter?” I whisper to myself. I’m pacing the room for what has to be the millionth time in three days. It’s early afternoon and there’s little else to do.
The bedroom is nice, but there’s no modern entertainment like a television or computer to keep me preoccupied. I’ve asked for my phone so many times I’ve lost count.
They won’t even let me have a book. The only one in the room is the Bible in the drawer of the bedside table.
I’ve been so bored, I’ve found myself flipping through it, reading passages.
The door opens and Daniela enters with a small tray.
“La merenda,” she announces. She walks the tray over to the oval table where I’ve been eating and sets it down. “Il Diavolo wants… you… come later…”
She motions with her hand as though to leave. My brows knit trying to understand what she’s saying.
“He wants me to go with you?”
She shakes her head to the side. “No,” she says. “Him.”
“With him?”
