Page 67 of Raziel

Afterward,

I held her.

Silent.

The only sound was our ragged breathing, slowly settling into one rhythm.

“You gonna make me kill Matteo if you talk to him again?”

“…No,” she breathed out.

“Do you forgive me?”

She nodded.

“Good girl,” I murmured, pressing my mouth to her temple. “Don’t run away from me again.”

Chapter Twenty eight- Raziel

I could hear Maya laughing from the bathroom. I toweled off my hair, pulling on a pair of black sweatpants, the steam from the bathroom curling into the cooler air of the bedroom.

I stilled, listening in the hallway. Who was she talking to?

She wasn’t using the casual, teasing tone she used with Carla or her sister. This was different. Respectful. Almost… deferential.

“No, sir, I don’t mind talking to you. You’re funny,” she was saying, curled on the sofa, her back to me. “Of course.” A pause, then another warm laugh. “You’re too kind. Really… Okay. I will. I’ll call you as soon as it gets here. Yes, sir.”

She ended the call and set the phone down.

I stepped into the room. “Who was that?”

She turned, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips. “Your father.”

The towel in my hand stilled. “My father?”

“Yeah. Mr. Raffaele. He’s… surprisingly easy to talk to.” She stretched, cat-like, completely unaware of the seismic shift her words had caused.

“When did that start? Is this the first time he called you?” I asked, my voice carefully neutral, though my mind was racing. My father didn’t make social calls. Especially not to women I was… involved with.

She shrugged. “A few days after we came back from New York, I guess… He gave me his number, told me to call if I ever needed anything. I just… called to check on him after he called. Him and Serena.” She said it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Before I could form a question, the doorbell rang.

Maya hopped up. “That’s probably it now.”

“Probably what?” I asked, but she was already padding to the door.

I followed her, a dark suspicion forming. She pulled the door open to reveal a man in a crisp polo shirt with a Jaguar logo embroidered on the chest. He held a clipboard.

“Maya?” he asked.

“That’s me,” she said, a note of confusion in her voice.

He smiled, professional and polite. “Perfect. Just need a signature right here for delivery.” She scribbled her name. He then handed her a set of keys, with the Jaguar emblem on the fob. “All yours. Congratulations. Mr. Mercier said you’d know the details.”

Mr. Mercier.

Maya took the keys, her mouth slightly agape as she looked past the man to the curb. Parked there, gleaming like a slick black panther under the afternoon sun, was a brand-new Jaguar F-Pace SVR.