Page 21 of Marry Me Not
I got here a few minutes early to make sure they gave us the specific table I’d requested. It wasn’t merely a preference. It was a mandatory part of the plan. The table sat halfway inside the restaurant, and you had to walk past it to get to the restroom. Rosa would be able to swipe Fabiana’s purse and drop it back off without anyone noticing.
The waiter, a younger guy, gave me a curious look when I slipped him a hundred-dollar bill.
“When my guest arrives, you’re going to bring us a bottle of red, and then you’re going to spill some on her. Make it look accidental.”
His eyebrows lifted. I gave him the look that usually got me what I wanted, and he pocketed the bill and walked away.
I dialed Rosa, keeping my eye on the entrance. “She’ll be here any moment. Is your guy ready?”
“Yes. All I have to do is connect the device he gave me to Fabiana’s phone for a few minutes. He’ll pull everything. Messages, emails, call logs. The lot.”
“Good.”
“For the record, I think this is next-level psycho.”
“Think whatever you want. I’m not leaving any stone unturned.” I hung up.
I had to give it to Nettle. She’d almost had me fooled.
She played the role of an innocent mafia princess to a tee. The virgin comment had been a nice touch on the con.
But after Rosa’s discovery in Geneva, I was convinced it was a lie.
Fabiana had been fired from her UN job for accepting bribes. Bribes.
She’d lied to me when I’d asked her why she’d come home early. She was dirty, and a far better actress than I’d given her credit for. I was almost sure now that she and my mother had something worked out between them.
Once Rosa got into Fabiana’s phone, I’d have everything—messages, emails, any correspondence she’d had with Vita since the day they’d met. That would be enough to piece together exactly what they’d been planning.
I was going to make sure that by the time she walked out of this restaurant, she was seriously questioning whether whatever my mother had offered her was worth being married to me.
The restaurant door opened, and a flash of curly hair caught my eye. Fabiana stepped inside, a camel wool coat draped over her shoulders, a black leather purse tucked under one arm.
The host greeted her and took her coat.
Underneath, she wore a black dress that hugged her every damn curve.
I reached for my water. I’d wanted to get this meeting over with sooner, but right after the engagement party, I’d flown back to Colombia. I’d negotiated with Alvarez and slept with one eye open at his compound outside Medellin. He still wouldn’t tell us who we were up against, and I was doing everything I could to keep the Alvarez deal from slipping through our fingers.
You’d think the stress of that would’ve been enough to keep my mind off Fabiana, but instead, I’d found myself scrolling through her Instagram photos late at night when I should have been sleeping.
At first, I told myself it was reconnaissance—know thy enemy. But somewhere between the photos of her laughing with friends and the shots of her at some UN gala looking devastatingly elegant in a midnight-blue gown, it had become something else.
Something fucking frustrating I didn’t want to name.
She hadn’t posted any of our engagement photos. Maybe it was a sign she was starting to question her commitment to this marriage.
I wanted her to call this damned engagement off. I needed her to. And yet each time I checked her feed—and I checked it more often than I cared to admit—the absence of those photos sent an inexplicable spike of irritation through my chest.
I knew what she really was now, and yet some primitive, illogical part of me was still drawn to her.
That needed to end. Today.
“Cosimo.” Her tone was carefully neutral, like she wasn’t sure what she was about to encounter.
“Fabiana.”
“How have you been?” She sat down and hung her purse off the back of the chair.
