Page 51 of Deal with the Devil
An abrupt knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. My head snaps up at the sound, and I question if I’ve just heard what I think I have.
Then I notice the pair of feet I can make out from under the crack in the door. They’re slender, the same kind of loafers the staff wears.
It couldn’t be…
I leap off the bed and rush toward the door to answer, wrenching it open in sheer disbelief. Daniela is on the other end. She presses a finger to her lips as soon as we’re face to face, signaling for me to be quiet.
“Follow,” she mutters.
I hesitate for only half a stunned second before I scramble to follow. I’ve stayed dressed for a reason, remaining in my day clothes in hopes the note had been true; I would actually get a chance to escape today.
Daniela moves quickly and I trail behind her, barely daring to breathe. The villa is cloaked in stillness, the kind that feels heavy and deliberate, like the house itself is holding its breath. We creep past thick mahogany doors and marble busts that leer at us in the dark. The only sounds are the soft creaks of the floorboards beneath our feet and the distant murmur of voices from deeper within the estate—too far away to make out clearly, but close enough to make my heart stutter.
We descend the staircase in silence, gripping the railing as we go. Halfway down the ground floor hall, she signals for me to stop. I duck into the nearest shadow, my back pressed against the cool stone wall. One of the guards rounds a corner just ahead, his footsteps sharp against the floor. I swallow my gasp and stay still, watching as he disappears into another wing of the villa.
Daniela jerks her head and we’re moving again, this time past the kitchen. The faint clatter of pots and the rhythmic scrape of a broom echo from within. The lemony smell of kitchen cleaner fills the air as the staff scrub the kitchen spotless for the night.They’re so engrossed in their work they don’t notice us flit by in the background.
We reach the end of the hall where we stop in front of tall glass doors flanked by heavy drapes. Through them are the terrace where the scribbled paper from last night had told me to make it down to.
Daniela gestures to the door. “Il signor Calderone è lì. Vai subito.”
I might only know a few words of Italian, but I can pick up on the name Calderone, and I understand what signor means.
My heart skips a beat at the mention of Rafael. I can hardly believe what I’ve heard as I look from Daniela to the glass doors leading out to the terrace.
She gives me an urgent nudge. “Go,” she says. “Now.”
I do as she says, twisting the brass handle and pushing the glass door open. It’s surreal stepping out onto the terrace, the warm night air kissing my skin at once. But I’m not even able to fully process the fact that I’m standing outside for the first time in days, because I’m more thrown by the man standing only a few feet away.
Relief rushes me, leaving me slightly lightheaded.
There he is in the flesh—Rafaelstands in the warm glow of the terrace waiting for me. He wears a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his thick forearms. His dark hair is tousled in just the way I remember, his beard neat and trimmed. His eyes catch the light and resemble polished obsidian.
Seeing him is like seeing a piece of home after being stuck across enemy lines.
Suddenly, I don’t know how I ever thought he was Il Diavolo. They’re two completely different men. I canfeeltheir different energy in the air, sense how as soon as my gaze meets Rafael, he’s drawn to me the same way I’m drawn to him.
In a way that can’t possibly be manufactured.
“Dolcezza,” he mutters, the same relief softening his deep tone.
Words elude me.
Without thinking, I rush toward him, crossing the terrace in a few quick steps. He pulls me into him as soon as I’m within reach. His arms wrap around me with a crushing strength that feels both comforting and secure. I press my face into the side of his neck and inhale the clean, masculine musk of his cologne.
Thisis Rafael. This is nothing like Il Diavolo.
“We have to get you out of here,” he says, stroking my hair. “There’s no time to waste.”
I pull back slightly, brows knitted. “But what’s going on?”
His expression darkens, his features tense. “It’s complicated, Portia. I’m… not sure I understand myself. But I don’t have time to explain even if I did. I got here a few minutes ago. I just know I have to get you out.”
I’m still confused as he grabs me by the hand and starts pulling me forward.
We cross the terrace quickly, the clack of our shoes against the stone loud in the hush of the night. The golden lights spill from the sconces and cast long, uncertain shadows across the path, but Rafael doesn’t hesitate. He holds my hand tight, the familiar grip grounding me even as my mind spins with dozens of questions I don’t dare ask yet.
The urgency in his stride tells me we don’t have time. Explanations will have to come later.
