Page 78 of Deal with the Devil
The car engine hums, filling in for the lack of conversation. The streets of Palermo unfold around us. We watch it happen through the tinted windows in a blur of golden lamplights, darkened storefronts, crumbling monuments, and tourist hotspots.
Every so often I sneak a glance over at Il Diavolo.
He stares out the window as if the scenery holds answers he’s not ready to share.
His posture is relaxed, but there’s something about the tilt of his head, the stillness of his shoulders, which tells me his mind is elsewhere. He hasn’t spoken since we left the villa.
Maybe I should start a conversation.
…which sounds like an insane thing to do considering he’s my captor, but this is the first time he’s bothered taking me outside the house.
Out into the real world, where things move and breathe and exist beyond the Bellucci estate’s gilded cage. Maybe I should be trying toworkthis somehow—use the opportunity to read him better, find a crack in his facade. If I can just get close enough, maybe I can shift the dynamic. Find an angle.
Maybe even bring out Rafael again. Or at the very least, get him to show his cards.
I clear my throat and soften my tone. “So… what show are we seeing tonight?”
He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze remaining on the window. “You’ll see when we get there.”
I almost roll my eyes before catching myself in time. Instead, I shift in my seat, smoothing my hands along the satin fabric of the gown.
“I’ve never been to the opera before.”
He turns away from the window for his first glance at me since we left the villa; his eyes dark and piercing behind the devil’s mask.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m taking you.”
I’m not sure how to respond or what to think by the blunt admission.
…except it seems to confirm something I’ve sensed about him.
The other night he was angry when I pushed him away. He was livid when I rebuffed him, clearly preferring Rafael.
It seemed to genuinely bother him on some level. It felt a lot like hurt feelings from a jealous lover.
Could he be… trying tocourtme? Is this his version of seduction? An evening out, a fine dress, expensive jewelry, a performance meant to impress me? The thought seems absurd—and yet it sticks, worming its way through the cracks in my logic like water seeping into stone.
I run my tongue across my bottom lip, wetting my lip as if to draw his attention to the area.
“Do you enjoy the opera?”
He looks back over at me and answers without hesitation. “Yes. The opera is an Italian masterpiece. It is one of the greatest cultural contributions this country has ever made.”
The certainty with which he answers takes me back. He sounds reverent about it.
Genuinely appreciative.
I fall quiet, startled by the answer and what it reveals. I didn’t imagine Il Diavolo as someone who cared about things like art or culture or anything beautiful, for that matter. Rafael never showed much interest in music or theater—he was always more pragmatic, more grounded in the tangible world.
But this? This is something else entirely.
He sounds like someone who sees power in elegance. Poetry in pain.
I say nothing else for the rest of the drive, my thoughts turning over and over inside my head.
When we finally pull up outside the Teatro Massimo, the car glides to a gentle stop against the curb. Through the window, the grand columns of the opera house glow in the night. Men in tuxedos and women draped in glittering gowns make their way up the cascading steps. The air outside hums with prestige and old money.
The car door opens, the performance set to begin.
