Page 89 of Deal with the Devil
“Enough!” he roars suddenly. He slams a fist on the table and makes the plates, knives, forks, and wine glasses all jump.
I do too, in my chair. My eyes widen, taken aback by his abrupt anger.
It’s another rare moment where he’s lost composure and I’ve been the one to take him there.
Sort of ironic when I’d set out to do the opposite during this dinner; I’d wanted to charm him and maybe use some feminine flirtation to win him over.
You fucked that up big time…
“If you want to know the truth, dolcezza, I’ll tell you,” Il Diavolo says after a moment of tense silence. “I made him. Not the other way around.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the truth. You don’t know much about him, do you, dolcezza? Have you forgotten what I’ve shown you? Do you remember the room in the guesthouse?”
I haven’t forgotten. I just haven’t let myself think about it for long.
Rafael’s infatuation with me has been intense from the first moment I met him. The mugger who had tried to accost me and take my purse lay knocked out on the cobblestone floor, and there he was—the same enigmatic man in a tailored suit who had been staring at me inside Appetito the entire evening.
He had shown up almost out of nowhere.
I had been flustered and caught off guard. My voice trembled a little when he asked for my name and I gave it to him.
Then he invited me for drinks and dancing at a nightclub, and the rest…
A shiver racks through my body thinking about that first night we spent together. I hadn’t known it at the time, but Rafael had already known all about me. He had been tracking me, surveilling me, watching me for years at that point.
The entire trip to Sicily was a ploy so he could finally meet me!
I’m not sure whether to be flattered or freaked out by the lengths he went to. It changes from moment to moment when I think about the situation, turning it over in my mind.
But then I listen to Il Diavolo speak so sinisterly of Rafael, and a seed of doubt grows. What does he mean he created Rafael? What else don’t I know that he’s alluding to?
…you know damn well you don’t know much about Rafael and his background. Isn’t that why you went to Sicily in the first place?
I push aside the thought and glance up to find Il Diavolo still watching me. He doesn’t need to remove the mask to tell me he’s entertained by the gradual signs of doubt trickling in.
“You’re not so confident now, are you?” he asks. “In your lover boy. You’ve gone from believing in him to having second thoughts. I must admit I wasn’t sure having dinner together was worthwhile, but you’ve proven me wrong, dolcezza. You’ve been good entertainment.”
“Why are you like this?” I ask, dropping any pretenses. “Why are you such a cold asshole all of the time?”
“Me? I’m not the problem. I’m not the bad guy. One day you’ll realize this.”
I shake my head but he presses on as if he doesn’t care.
“One day you’ll realize who the real villain of this story is.”
“I’ve had enough of dinner. I’ll be in my room.” I push back my chair and pivot on my heel without waiting for his approval, striding out of the dining room.
He makes it clear my presence won’t be missed—he releases a cold, taunting laugh as my sendoff, the sound following me every step of the way.
I wake in the middle of the night to pain so violent it feels like my body has waged war on itself.
There’s no warning or buildup. Just a brutal, searing, stabbing pain in my abdomen that wrenches me out of sleep and leaves me paralyzed in the dark, mouth open in a silent gasp. It radiates outward like white-hot fire tearing through tissue, stabbing deep into my pelvis and coiling up my spine.
It’s so intense that, for a long moment, I can’t even bring myself to move. The body parts that do, like my toes, are spasming from the waves of pain crashing over me.
And that’s when I notice the slick wet mess I’m lying in—the warm moisture that clings to the insides of my thighs and soaks the bedsheets.
