Page 88 of Deal with the Devil
We fall back into awkward silence, returning to the antipasto and Chianti. Il Diavolo seems perfectly fine with doing so, in fact preferring dinner with no words spoken.
I sigh under my breath, dragging my fork in the olive oil on my plate. “Great. So much for charming him.”
But I’m not ready to give up just yet.
The staff return to clear the antipasto, replacing it with fragrant bowls of mushroom risotto, the scent earthy and rich.
I wait until we’re alone in the dining room again before I give charming Il Diavolo another attempt.
“Have you ever been to the opera house here?” I ask, sampling the risotto. “Newport Opera House. They used to runLa Bohèmeevery winter and spring.”
He gives no indication he’ll answer, like so many times before. He leaves me in mystery for several seconds, sipping from his wine as if considering whether the comment is worth a response.
“No,” he says finally. “I’ve never been.”
I glance up, head tilted slightly. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Oh,” I say. “I guess I assumed…”
“The other night in Palermo was my first time.”
I blink. “Your first opera ever?”
He simply nods, sipping more Chianti. “Yes, I have always wanted to go. But I have never been able to.”
“But… you said you’ve always wanted to go. Why haven’t you? Too busy?”
“No, more like I’ve never been awake long enough.”
His admission leaves me so startled, I’m speechless.
The staff have returned yet again to deliver us the main course, roast lamb and a medley of roasted peppers.
Il Diavolo ignores his staff and the fussing over him they do, ensuring everything is just right. His focus is solely on me, his gaze penetrative and scorching.
My face heats up, and suddenly I’m finding it much more difficult to look back across the table. I clear my throat and reach for my Chianti.
“You seem uncomfortable now,” he says. He tilts his head to the side. “Is there a particular reason?”
“Huh? Oh. Um… No reason. I guess I just… I…”
“You didn’t think about what it was like, spending your entire existence in the dark.”
“When you put it like that…”
“Maybe you can understand why I’m not so eager to give up control.”
“But you’re doing to him what he did to you.”
“Such is life,” he replies coolly, drinking more wine. “His happiness is not my responsibility.”
“But yours isn’t his either.”
“You defend him so naturally,” he observes, sounding almost amused. “It would be endearing if it weren’t so annoying.”
I half roll my eyes, my grip on the fork tightening. “I’m not defending Rafael. I’m pointing out the obvious—and here’s some more for you: you’re inhabitinghisbody. You’re stealinghislife. Everythinghe’screated and made for himself. You’re a part ofhim?—”
