Page 29 of Be With Me
“How many times would you even need to meet him in person to do the job?” Zo asked, flipping through the cocktail menu again.
I thought about it. “Two or three times? The party’s in two weeks, so there’s not much time for back-and-forth. We’d have one meeting to agree on the look, and then a fitting or two.”
“Three meetings. Three measly meetings where you just have to stay sharp,” Zo said before her gaze darted to Nina. “You think she can’t handle that? Have some faith. This could change everything for her.”
Nina frowned. “Romolo might not even hold up his end of the bargain. Especially if he manages to get what he wants from Mia. You can’t trust him.”
I flattened my palms against the table. “Does he really think I’m stupid enough to hand him information about my dad?”
And what information would that even be? My dad wasn’t hiding skeletons in his closet. He was an honest man trying to fix this city.
The Ferraros must be nervous about being in his crosshairs.
What was their plan?
I rolled my lips, thoughts tangling. Maybe that was another thing I could try to figure out.
“The men in our world always underestimate women,” Fabi said. “Just forget about him, Mia. If he comes to see you again, tell me, and I’ll talk to Cosimo. Romolo has no right to bother you.”
“You think your fiancé would do something about it?”
Fabi’s cheeks reddened. “I-I don’t know.”
And that was the problem.
She had no idea who she was marrying.
Dressing Romolo for this event could give me a chance to find out.
But according to Nina, he was dangerous and smart.
Could I really hold my own against him?
Could I afford not to?
CHAPTER9
ROM
Mia Morales was almost too perfect.
The interviews, the speeches at her father’s rallies—they painted a picture of a dutiful daughter, the kind who’d sacrifice anything for her family. Her stepmom was sick, so Mia stepped in as the radiant proxy, always at her father’s side.
The media adored her. She had the face of a saint, all soft smiles and big brown eyes, and was forever being caught in the act of doing something noble. Volunteering at soup kitchens. Shaking hands with elderly veterans. Laughing with wide-eyed kids at youth centers.
She smiled like there was nowhere else she’d rather be.
But it was a lie.
Her posture was too stiff, her shoulders too tight. Her smile was beautiful, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Despite being all over the news, it was clear she hated the spotlight. And yet, she endured it. For her father.
I was sprawled out in bed, laptop balanced on my stomach, whiskey glass in hand as I scrolled through her Instagram for the dozenth time. Her Facebook was a fossil from her teenage years, abandoned long before the Morales political machine got its claws in her. The Internet was all curated interviews where she stuck to the party line. But Instagram? That’s where the real Mia lived.
Her account was private, but she wasn’t careful about who she let in. I made a burner profile for a fake clothing brand, posted a single vague teaser about an upcoming launch, and sent her a follow request. She accepted within an hour.
Little Mia probably prided herself on supporting small businesses.
