Chapter 4- A Deal with the Devil

Edwina

"See you around, Princessa," Alessandro calls out smoothly as the car pulls up in front of my company building. The doors unlock automatically, and I step out, adjusting my dress. Before I can respond, Alessandro speeds off, leaving me standing at the entrance, watching the taillights disappear into traffic.

A sharp, furious voice cuts through the air.

"I swear, Edwina, one day, I will strangle you!"

My eyes widen as my best friend, Krystal, storms up to me, her heels clicking aggressively against the pavement. Her face is flushed with frustration, and her arms are crossed tightly over her chest.

"What the hell?" I blurt out, genuinely taken aback. "Krys, why are you screaming like a lunatic?"

She places her hands on her hips, practically vibrating with fury. "Where the hell were you last night, Ed?! And you better not feed me any bullshit!"

I sigh, already knowing how relentless Krystal can be when she wants answers. "How about we talk about this in my office?" I suggest calmly. "I'd rather not have this conversation where we cause a scene."

She narrows her eyes but eventually nods. "Fine. But you will explain yourself."

We stride into the building, and I greet a few employees on my way to my office. The moment we step inside and the door clicks shut, Krystal whirls around to face me.

"Okay. Talk. I called you forty times, Edwina. Forty! Where the hell were you?!"

Pulling my phone out of my bag, I confirm she’s not exaggerating—forty missed calls. Damn.

"I'm sorry, okay?" I say, dropping into my chair and powering up my MacBook. "Alexxis and I went out for drinks, and... well, things happened."

Krystal raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Things? What kind of things, exactly?"

I exhale, running a hand through my hair. "I got completely wasted, and a man took me to his penthouse for the night."

Krystal gasps dramatically. "A man?!" Her eyes practically gleam with scandal. "Who?!"

I hesitate for a fraction of a second before saying, "Raffaele Marcello."

Her jaw drops. "As in Raffaele Marcello, the head of the Italian mafia?!"

I nod. "Problem?"

"Problem?" she whisper-yells, looking around as if someone might be listening. "Ed, what the hell are you doing associating with someone like him? Do you have a death wish?"

I lean back in my chair. "Let’s just say I struck a deal with him."

Krystal’s eyebrows shoot up to her forehead. "A deal? With the Italian mafia? Are you insane?"

"You have to promise to keep this to yourself, Krys," I say seriously. "You know how much I trust you."

Krystal huffs, crossing her arms. "Fine. My lips are sealed. But you owe me details. Like, for instance, how big—"

"Krys!" I interrupt, rolling my eyes as she smirks.

"Oh, come on! No sex at all?"

"No," I sigh. "There was no sex involved."

She pouts dramatically. "But he’s Italian..."

"And?"

"Italian men are hot."

I chuckle at her reaction. "If you must know, I'd rate him a solid 9.5."

Krystal lets out a squeal. "Oh, honey, you're so whipped."

I shake my head, laughing as we move on to other topics, chatting until I finally have to usher her out so I can actually get some work done.

Later in the day, after sitting through exhausting meetings and reviewing project proposals, I finally step into my car. Elliot, my driver, greets me with a nod before pulling into traffic.

"Busy day?" he asks.

I sigh, leaning back against the seat. "Yeah."

My phone buzzes, and I answer without checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

Raffaele’s smooth, velvety voice fills my ear. "Mind joining me for dinner?"

I blink in surprise. "As in... a date?"

He scoffs. "I don’t do dates, Tesoro. Consider it a business meeting over dinner."

I smirk, pushing his buttons. "So, a business date, then?"

He ignores my teasing. "Be ready in two hours."

The line goes dead.

"Asshole," I murmur.

Elliot smirks from the rearview mirror. "Something funny?"

"Nothing," I mutter.

Once home, I take my time showering, letting the warm water wash away my stress. Slipping into a deep red, extreme-slit strappy maxi dress and pairing it with six-inch gold stiletto heels, I admire my reflection. My makeup is flawless, my lips painted the same bold red as my dress. I tie my hair into a sleek low bun, adding large golden hoop earrings for the final touch.

The doorbell chimes, echoing through my penthouse. Grabbing my clutch, I descend the stairs and open the door to find Raffaele standing there.

His emerald eyes darken slightly as he takes me in, but he quickly masks his reaction, clearing his throat. "Ready to go?"

I nod, ignoring the slight sting of disappointment at his lack of a compliment. We step into the elevator, the tension thick in the air. He stands close—too close—and I feel the heat of his breath against my neck. My skin prickles, my pulse quickening, but I force myself to remain composed.

The elevator dings open, releasing the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We stride across the lobby, all eyes on us—though most seem fixated on Raffaele. His aura demands attention, radiating dominance and power.

A sleek black Bugatti Chiron waits at the entrance. He unlocks it, and I slide inside, the luxurious leather molding against me.

He drives like a madman, weaving recklessly through New York traffic.

"Could you slow down?" I grit out.

"Relax, Tesoro," he says, entirely unfazed.

I shoot him a glare but say nothing. Soon, we arrive at an exclusive Italian restaurant. He extends his arm, and though I hesitate, his sharp glare leaves no room for refusal. Linking my arm through his, I ignore the envious stares from other women as we are led to a private candlelit table.

"So..." I begin, breaking the silence.

"We’ll discuss business after you eat," he says, already pouring us wine.

The menu is incomprehensible to me, but before I can ask, Raffaele orders for both of us.

"What did you get?" I ask.

He smirks. "You’ll love it."

We sip wine, the conversation shifting. "I need your help," I finally say. "Fifteen years ago, my sister Geneva Gemstone was murdered. They staged it as a suicide. I want revenge."

His expression darkens. "And your parents?"

"They don’t control me," I say coldly. "I’ll walk through hell and dine with the devil to get what I want."

His lips curl slightly. "Betray me, and I’ll kill you myself."

"That won’t be a problem."

As we eat, an unexpected crash shatters the moment. A glass hits the ground, splintering into pieces. Raffaele is on his feet in an instant, his voice like a whip.

"What the fuck?!"