Page 95 of Deal with the Devil
My limbs feel weightless. The rest of my body achy. It’s easier not to move.
The flare-up refuses to back down that easily. It leaves my insides feeling like it’s been chewed up and spit out by a meat grinder. But the medication keeps some of the throbbing, stabbing pain at bay. I find myself curling around the heating pad like it’s a lifeline, letting its warm pulse soothe the aches and pains.
The next couple days blur together.
I mostly spend them in bed like Dr. Delfino advised, only getting up when necessary. Mara checks on me a couple times a day and brings me light food. Things like more stracciatella soup and lightly toasted bread with olive oil and sea salt and herbal tea laced with honey.
She’s usually quiet, though I sense the same kind of sympathy Daniela had for me. It serves as a reminder how much I miss the rosy-cheeked brunette; I never got a chance to say goodbye before we left Sicily…
I don’t see much of Il Diavolo over the next few days, though traces of his cologne linger in the bedroom. It’s still different from Rafael’s, which is spicier and woodier while Diavolo’s has more of a clean, understated note to it, almost like some mix of soap and cotton.
Though he isn’t around during the day, hedoescome by at night.
It happens late, when I’ve already been asleep for a few hours. The door cracks open and his silhouette appears in the hallway. He never comes inside, standing at the threshold likehe’s checking to make sure I’m in bed and not somewhere bleeding on the floor like the other night.
Then the door eases shut again as if he never came by.
I pretend I’m sleeping, lying still under the sheets and blankets. But, really, I’m processing the fact that Il Diavolo’s mere energy changes the chemistry in the room, much like Rafael’s does. I’ve come to realize it brings the same level of comfort and security.
I snuggle closer to my pillow, pulling the bedsheets tighter, and sleep off back to sleep.
By the third day, I’ve started to feel more like myself. The worst of the flare-up has passed, and I’ve become restless and in need of more to do than sleep and watch movies on TV.
Mara comes by to change the linens on the bed, noticeably relieved I’m feeling better.
“Signore has requested your company tonight,” she says, smoothing the top sheet over the mattress.
“He has?”
“You’re to be dressed by seven. He’ll be spending the evening with you.”
That gives me pause as I think back to other evenings we’ve spent together.
“Did he say what we’re doing?”
Mara moves onto the pillowcases. “He didn’t tell me. Only that you should dress well.”
I exhale slowly, gaze drifting toward the window, where traffic flows up and down the streets many stories below.
It’s hard to say if Il Diavolo’s plans are as enjoyable as the night we’d spent watching La Traviata in Palermo or if he’ll revert back to more menacing nights like when he caught me calling Jayla.
But come 7 p.m., I make sure to be dressed like he’s asked.
The silver dress I’m wearing was a suggestion from Mara I realized was really from Il Diavolo himself. I agreed since it was not only flattering with its midi length, slim cut, and capped sleeves, but the silvery sheen catches beautifully in the light.
We’ve stuck with my signature red lip and kept the rest of my makeup simple, other than emphasizing my lashes with the help of some mascara.
When the elevator doors to the penthouse floor roll apart, I don’t turn around right away. I’m adjusting the clasp on my bracelet, praying tonight will go well.
But then I feel the energy in the air shift, and I realize he reallyhasarrived. I turn around to find him already staring at me.
Though his mask obscures the rest of his expression, his eyes do the talking. They’re dark, burning with desire and possession.
The look he gives me instantly steals my breath away.
It’s a moment that goes on for longer than I realize as we stand in silence, staring at each other, and when he finally speaks, I’m startled.
“Magnifica.”
