Page 52 of Deal with the Devil
We slip down a narrow stone staircase tucked behind a row of potted oleanders. Beyond it lies a manicured garden, vast and labyrinthine. The hedges rise tall around us, thick with summer’s fullness, and for a moment it feels like we’re being swallowed by the estate itself, its vines curling around our ankles as though about to pull us under.
Rafael slows just enough to press me back against a hedge, shielding me from the dim flashlight beam of a patrolling guard. My heart beats so hard I’m sure the sound will give us away, but the man passes by as clueless as ever.
Once we’re sure the coast is clear, we’re back on the move.
The garden eventually gives way to a tiled patio that curves around an Olympic-sized pool, its water glowing a ghostly turquoise under the lights. Lounge chairs are lined up in rows on either side. I want to ask where we’re going, where he’s taking me, how long he’s been back, but every time I open my mouth, he glances over his shoulder with that same tense expression, and I swallow the questions down again.
It doesn’t make sense—none of this does. If Rafael is affiliated with the Bellucci crime family, then why is he hiding from his own men? Why is he risking everything to sneak me out under cover of darkness like a fugitive? Have things turned sour between him, Don Vito, and Il Diavolo?
Is that why Il Diavolo said he had ‘handled’ Rafael? Did he believe he had eliminated Rafael, but Rafael has returned to come back for me?
But if that’s true, how did he find out I was here in the first place? Where’s Maurizio? Adagio?
They’re damn near his shadows. Very rarely are they ever seen without him.
We reach another row of hedges, these taller and thicker than the ones before. Rafael promptly releases my hand and turns his back, facing away from me. His posture tenses up as if he’s suddenly struck by pain, his breathing now labored.
I watch as he scrubs a hand over his face, fingers sliding into his hair like he’s trying to tear something out of himself.
“Rafael?” I reach out slowly, placing a hand against the back of his shoulder.
The second my palm touches him, he jerks away violently.
“Stay back!”
It’s not only his posture that’s changed, it’s his voice too. The energy he gives off.
The air around us thickens with something darker and unnerving. The warmth I felt from him only moments ago vanishes, replaced by a suffocating chill that draws tiny gooseflesh onto my skin.
I step to the side for a better view of him and that’s when I see it—it’s like his face is changing.
He looks like himself but unlike himself at the exact same time.
His features are shifting in ways that defy logic. The angle of his jaw tightens. His eyes lose their warmth entirely, turning glassy and cold. His lips curl into a sneer so venomous it resembles a mask I’ve now become all too familiar with. He’s no longer the man who held me on the terrace. He’s someone else entirely.
He’s Il Diavolo.
But not in the way I initially suspected he was.
The realization hits so hard I almost fall back. I gasp aloud, a hand coming up to my mouth.
When I suspected Rafael was Il Diavolo, I assumed it was merely some secret identity he took on to conduct his illicit business dealings, like a pseudonym a person might use to protect their real identity.
Never did I consider Rafael and Il Diavolo were two entirely different men trapped inside the same body.
As I watch the change happen in front of me, there’s no denying the truth.
I’m so shocked and horrified it takes me several more seconds before survival instincts kick in and I realize I have to run. Rafael is no longer with me, which means I have to get the hell out of here.
I turn and take off, putting as much distance between me and Il Diavolo as possible. I’m not even sure where I’m going, feet pounding across a winding stone path. I cut between some hedges that scratch at my arms and snag in my hair. One of my shoes slips off as I emerge on the other side, but I keep going, throwing a glance over my shoulder.
Though I can’t see him, I can hear the pound of his footsteps as he sprints after me.
A smaller building emerges up ahead, tucked near the edge of the estate. It’s dark and unassuming, barely visible through the cypress trees.
I don’t know what it is—guesthouse, guardhouse, carriage house—but it’s my only chance.
I reach it, breathless and trembling, yanking the door open and slipping inside before slamming it behind me. I twist the lock with trembling fingers, the heavy thunk of the deadbolt the first small relief I’ve felt since Rafael became Il Diavolo.
