Page 58 of Deal with the Devil
She bites on her bottom lip, then gives a guilty nod of her head. “I was instructed not to speak to you. It was easier if I pretended.”
Of course, Il Diavolo and the Belluccis wouldn’t want the staff like Daniela speaking to me—it would open up the possibility we would actually bond or form some kind of kinship. That would be the last thing they’d want for a captive.
For someone as sweet and kind as Daniela seems to be, that must’ve been a difficult command. It makes total sense why she’d pretend not to speak or understand much English at all.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say simply. “You can still pretend you haven’t spoken to me.”
She glances at the door, wringing her hands. “Don Vito is a very strict boss. But… he is old and frail now. He’s not who I’m worried about.”
“It’s…” I gesture to my face to signify the devil’s mask, and she fervently nods.
“He’s very… he is very particular. It’s not smart to go against his rules.”
A sigh leaves me as I sink down onto the edge of the bed. “Which is why I’m probably going to be stuck here for the rest of my life, aren’t I? However long he decides to keep me alive.”
Daniela frowns, a small wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. Her eyes dart to the door again out of paranoia, then she lowers her voice another notch. “But he’s not in charge all of the time. Or even most of the time. He is not… he’s not the dominant one.”
My frown matches hers. “What do you mean?”
“Personality,” she whispers. “He is not normally this…awake.”
“You mean he could disappear at any moment,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “And Rafael could return again?”
“That’s what has happened before. He has never stayed in control. It’s only a matter of time. Not if but when.”
I inhale a deep breath, holding onto every word she’s spoken. It’s the only glimmer of hope I have after what I’ve been through.
Rafael could return any moment, and when he does, he’ll be enraged by what’s happened. He’ll be desperate to make things right again like he was the brief moment on the terrace. He’ll want to get me as far away from Il Diavolo as possible…
“You miss your family, yes?” Daniela asks.
“Miss them? I’d give anything just to hear their voices,” I say. “I can’t imagine what they’re thinking. I’m sure all sorts of lies have been spread about what’s really going on.”
Daniela’s eyes shift to the door, then return to me. “Maybe… later tonight… I can let you place a call. Only a brief call to your sister. So you can let her know you are alive and well. But you must be discreet. You must not misuse the phone or get into trouble. If he found out I let you use it?—”
“I would never do that,” I interrupt quickly. “Please, I’d be very discreet. It would be under a minute or two. Just a call to let Jayla know I’m still breathing and whatever lies have been told are false.”
“When I bring supper later.”
Daniela pats my hand and then flees from the room like she’s worried we’ll be found out at any second.
It’s only a phone call, but it’s the biggest opportunity I’ve had since Rafael’s note to have any sort of contact with the outside world.
Suddenly, the dread that’s left me feeling suffocated and hopeless recedes if only slightly. If only for the moment as I count the hours until supper and Daniela’s return with the phone.
Later that evening, I’m on pins and needles waiting for supper. It’s not about the food, though the meals the Bellucci staff prepares are gourmet.
It’s about what Daniela will be bringing when she delivers my tray. If everything goes according to plan, she’ll bring her cell phone, and I’ll be able to make a call to Jayla to at least let her know I’m alright.
It feels like the night I’d tried to escape all over again. My stomach flutters with nerves as I pace the confined space of the bedroom and count down the time until the moment arrives.
Daniela doesn’t knock like she usually does.
The bedroom door creaks as it opens and she slips inside. I immediately go tense, only to discover it’s the stout, rosy-cheeked maid.
She steps inside with the same kind smile I’ve come to recognize, her hands steady as she balances the silver tray between them.
She doesn’t say much, but a sense of urgency flickers in her eyes. She sets the tray down on the table near the window, revealing a plate of steaming tomato pasta glistening in a shallow pool of oil, slices of roasted eggplant curled like blackened flower petals. And beside the plate, nestled discreetly between the silverware and napkin, is a cell phone.
