Page 57 of Deal with the Devil
Every strangled breath drawn. Every hard press of his lips. Even how his fingers felt gripping the flesh on my arms as he held me and refused to let go.
It’s almost worse than the kiss itself.
…which I don’t even know where to begin to make sense of. I don’t know how to make sense of anything that happened that night.
Rafael had written me that escape note; he had waited for me on the terrace only to turn into Il Diavolo.
But it was against his will.
I had been wrong all along—Rafael Calderone and Il Diavolo might’ve inhabited the same body, but they weren’t the same man.
Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.
I had assumed from the moment Il Diavolo turned up at the airport that it meant he must’ve been Rafael. But I believed Rafael was fully cognizant the entire time, that he was acting out of cruelty, and it meant he had been deceptive our entire relationship.
If Diavolo was another personality of his, then that meant it was possible Rafael had little to no idea about what his alter ego was doing…
Even watching him transform was uncanny. It was like watching a man become someone else while remaining himself the entire time. Rafael was still Rafael, but entirely different, as perplexingly as it sounds.
I could tell the difference at once. The two men were so distinct it’s disturbing to think they inhabit the same body.
There’s little else to do to pass the time but fixate on these things when locked away in a room at the Bellucci villa. I spend the days either reliving the nightmare that was the kiss from Il Diavolo or picking apart the situation with Rafael’s apparent Dissociative Identity Disorder.
The only person I come in regular contact with is Daniela, and honestly, I’m grateful. I’d rather deal with the rosy-cheeked maid than Il Diavolo or any of the Belluccis and their guards.
She comes by several times a day, dropping off trays of food for breakfast, lunch, an afternoon snack, and then in the evenings for dinner.
I’ve dropped the attitude and long ago stopped refusing to eat.
When she returns to collect the trays, she usually finds them with only a few crumbs left to spare, if not completely empty.
A pleased smile comes to her face when she sees I’ve obeyed, effectively making her job easier.
After a few days, the pleased smiles are paired with a bow of her head and, “Grazie.”
More than bored out of my mind, I start answering her in Italian as best as I can. “Prego.”
That only makes her smile widen as she excuses herself from the room, and I’m left alone again until her next visit.
In need of some sort of mental stimulation, I grab the Bible from the nightstand drawer and begin reading it. First silently, then aloud when my throat aches from lack of use. I’m pacing the room, reading passages to myself like I’m giving some sort of sermon.
I don’t even notice the door is open and Daniela has carried in a tray with today’s la merenda. She’s smiling and nodding along, the tray in hand as she listens to every word I recite out loud.
Warmth flushes my face as I clap shut the book and toss it on the bed. “Um… I was bored. And going a little crazy locked in here.”
She nods as if in understanding, then carries the tray over to the same table by the window where I eat my every meal.
Normally, I’d think nothing of it, but I can’t help watching her place the tray on the table. Today’s afternoon snack is fresh-out-of-the-oven bread coated in olive oil with mozzarella and ripe tomatoes on top.
“Daniela,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“You can understand me, can’t you?” I ask slowly.
She hesitates to answer, stepping back from the table and wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks flush a similar shade to the tomatoes she’s serving me for snack, clashing horribly with her honeyed brown hair.
“You can,” I say more certainly. “You know more English than you’ve let on.”
