Page 11 of When She Tempts (The Fallen)
Her gaze falls to the ground before hesitantly crawling back up to me. “A lot of things. It helps me get to sleep.”
Yeah, right. Staring at a glowing screen is definitely not helping her with that. “I don’t think so. In fact, it probably does the opposite.”
“Please, Giorgio.” Her voice cracks.
My gaze narrows at that pitiful sound, and something squirms inside my chest.
Why is she so upset about it? It’s just a fucking phone.
But her eyes are turning liquid as she waits for my response…and that’s when it dawns on me.
This thing is her fucking crutch. She probably spends her entire day on it, numbing her mind to the real world.
She’s addicted, and I just took away her fix. What’s going to happen when she’s left alone with just her thoughts?
Fuck, this is worse than I thought. How did De Rossi allow her to get this bad? And that wife of his? She’s the reason Lazaro came to Ibiza, so the least she could have fucking done was make fixing Martina her priority.
Martina wipes under her eyes, preemptively catching her tears before they track down her cheeks, and stares at me.
Cracking my neck, I look out the window. I don’t like how her teary eyes make me feel. Just then, a thought occurs to me. This phone might be the only thing she cares about at the moment, and she wants it back.
Why not use that drive? Why not give her a distraction? Something to keep her busy for a few days so that she doesn’t just spend them spiraling in bed…
My gaze drops to the device in my hand.
“I’ll encrypt it for you,” I say, slipping the phone inside my pocket. “Afterwards, you can have it back.”
She heaves a sigh of relief and adjusts her position, crossing her legs. “Thank you. How long will that take?”
“However long it takes for you to find it.”
Her relief disappears in a blink, and her mouth slackens. “What do you mean?”
“You heard me. I’ll encrypt the phone tomorrow and hide it somewhere in the castello. If you want it back, you’ll need to find it yourself.”
There’s a drawn-out pause while she absorbs my words.
Her other foot drops to the floor, and she shrugs off my jacket. “You’re sending me on a scavenger hunt for my phone? I’m eighteen—nearly nineteen, actually. Given your age, I understand that I probably seem very young, but I can assure you, I grew out of scavenger hunts at least a decade ago.”
I choke on a laugh.
Given my age?
Little Martina De Rossi is talking back to me.
“How old do you think I am?” I ask, cocking an amused brow.
Her eyes narrow, her outrage palpable. “To be honest, I don’t really care. I just want my phone back.”
“Then you’re going to have to play along,” I say with a shrug. “Shouldn’t be that hard.”
“This is stupid,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Did my brother put you up to this?”
“Why would he?”
“He always complains about me being on my phone too much.”
Ah, so De Rossi did notice. Not that he gets any credit for it. He hasn’t done anything about it.
