Page 96 of Deal with the Devil
It’s the only word he says as he steps toward me and takes my hand.
My cheeks flush, warmth flooding me. I glance away before my smile gives me away too much. He notices it anyway, giving my hand a tug.
“It’s time,” he says. “There’s a car.”
We ride in a limo through the downtown Newport streets.
I’ve lived in this city my entire life. It only takes me a couple blocks, recognizing buildings and street signs, before I realize where we’re headed.
I glance over at him, arching a brow. “Wait. Are we going to the opera?”
“I realized you had a good idea,” he answers with half of a shrug. “Maybe the first time you’ve had one.”
“Really? You’re one to talk. Youarethe one who’s taken a woman captive.”
“That’s not a bad idea. That’s perhaps the best idea I’ve ever had, dolcezza. Then who would I have to come with me to see the show tonight?”
I openly roll my eyes at him, shaking my head.
He merely chuckles, then adds, “I figured I’ve never been to the opera here in Newport, like you pointed out.… and you seemed to enjoyLa Traviata.I decided it would be worthwhile to see another.”
He doesn’t offer any further explanation; he doesn’t really need to.
My smile stretches on anyway.
We arrive at the Newport Performing Arts Theater just as the first wave of patrons stream inside. The attendees are a lot like the ones at the Teatro Massimo, well-dressed and polished.
The Newport Theater is more modern than the Massimo, though no less refined. It’s all gleaming dark glass and brass fixtures.
On the inside, you can glance up at the ceiling and see the night’s sky.
I realize as we’re milling into the theater and the usher hands us a program at the door that we’ll be seeingDon Giovanni.
A thrill passes through me.
Once again, we’re escorted to a private balcony—this one placed centrally like the last, giving us a perfect view of the stage and the full expanse of the orchestra pit below. The lights dim gradually and conversations die off.
Silence falls over the crowd as the overture begins.
Il Diavolo sits beside me in silence, one leg crossed loosely over the other, his hand resting on the armrest between us. Iglance over, curious to see if this opera holds his attention the wayLa Traviatadid.
I’m not sure why I ever thought it wouldn’t—Il Diavolo clearly was serious when he said he has a great respect for the opera. It seems to be one of his favorite forms of entertainment.
His eyes are fixed on the stage as though he doesn’t want to miss a moment.
I smile and let myself become absorbed too.
The music builds around us in powerful fashion. Somewhere in the middle of the second act, when Don Giovanni’s fate begins to creep closer, I glance at Il Diavolo again—this time more out of habit than anything—and catch him already watching me.
“Enjoying yourself, dolcezza?” he asks in a quiet tone.
I give a small nod, our gaze holding for a second longer.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but for maybe the first time since Il Diavolo has emerged, I touch him first. His arm is still on the armrest that divides our seats, and without thinking, I lay my hand atop his.
He doesn’t react or pull his away, simply glancing down at our hands, then turns his attention back toward the show.
We remain that way for the rest of the opera, our hands touching but not entwined. The warmth from his skin feels as comforting as his scent does, once again in a way that Rafael’s would.
