SLEEPING WITH THE DEVIL

INTERPOL

*CHAPTER 10: INTERPOL*

Day 3 started with sirens.

Not police sirens. Church bells.

Villa Blackwood has its own small chapel behind the main house, near the lake. Old stone, with a bell that rings every morning at 7 AM because Vittorio's late wife — Killian's mother, Isabella — made a rule: Every morning, the bell rings for the souls in Lake Como.

I woke up to that bell. 7:00 AM, loud, echoing across the black water that was now turning blue in the morning sun.

I was still in Killian's huge black bed, still wearing his huge black t-shirt, still wearing his mother's diamond necklace, bandaged feet, hair messy. And Killian was not on the sofa anymore. He was not in the room.

The double doors were open. Morning light came in. And the smell of coffee and... and cigarette smoke? Killian doesn't smoke.

I sat up fast. The voice recorder was still on the nightstand, blinking red — battery low. The confession papers were still on the desk, four pages, USB taped.

But Killian's gun was gone from the drawer. The drawer was open, empty.

And there were voices downstairs. Many voices. Men shouting in Italian.

I stood up, wincing because my feet still hurt, and grabbed Killian's black sweatpants from yesterday and put them on quickly, rolling them up because they were too long. And his t-shirt was already on me. I looked like a child wearing her father's clothes. With a diamond necklace.

I ran downstairs barefoot, bandaged feet thumping on cold marble.

In the main hall, near the front door, there were ten men in black suits — Killian's men — holding guns, pointing at the door.

And outside the door, there were five black cars. Not Bugatti. Alfa Romeo. With a logo: INTERPOL.

And a woman in a blue suit, blonde, tall, holding a badge: INTERPOL — AGENT SOFIA CONTI.

And behind her, handcuffed, being pushed by two Interpol men, was Vittorio Blackwood. In handcuffs. In a gray suit. White hair messy. Face red with anger.

And Killian was standing between them, in a black shirt and black pants, hair messy, holding a coffee mug, calm, like he was watching a movie.

"Good morning, Little Spy," he said when he saw me on the stairs, in his clothes, barefoot, bandaged, necklace. "You woke up just in time for the show."

Vittorio saw me and his eyes went wide. Then narrow.

"You! The Filipina maid! You did this!" he shouted at me in Italian-accented English. "You and my son! You traitor son! I gave you everything! Villa! Money! And you sell your father to Interpol for a w***e!"

Killian's coffee mug shattered. He threw it against the wall, hard. It exploded.

"Don't call her a w***e, Father," Killian said, voice low, deadly quiet, the whole hall going silent. "She is Agent Elara Cruz, NBI Philippines, sister of Marco Reyes, the driver you killed and threw in my lake. She is braver than you, richer than you, and she is wearing my mother's necklace. So you will show respect."

Agent Sofia Conti stepped forward, blonde, professional, holding up a paper.

"Vittorio Blackwood, you are under arrest by Interpol Rome for conspiracy to murder, murder of Marco Reyes on August 15, 2021, ordered murder, bribery of Luca Moretti in amount of $50,000, and attempted murder of Agent Elara Cruz last night in Villa Bianco garden. We have a signed confession from Enzo Rossi, video evidence from pier security camera dated 2021-08-15 23:47, and voice recording of Enzo and Luca. You have right to remain silent -"

Vittorio was screaming now, being dragged to the Alfa Romeo.

"Killian! You will regret this! The Moretti will kill you! The Sicilians will kill you! You think this Filipina will save you? She came to kill you! She is a spy! She -"

The car door slammed. Vittorio was inside. Interpol men got in. Five cars drove away fast, tires screeching on the gravel, leaving Villa Blackwood quiet again.

Ten of Killian's men lowered their guns.

Signora Russo came out from the kitchen, holding her rosary, crying.

"Mr. Killian... your father..."

"He killed my mother, Signora. Not directly. But he made her sick with his cheating. And he killed Marco who saved my life. He had to go," Killian said softly to her in Italian.

She nodded and went back to kitchen, crying.

Killian turned and looked at me on the stairs. I was frozen, holding the railing, bandaged feet, his sweatpants too long, his t-shirt too big, diamond necklace shining in morning light.

He walked up the stairs slowly, one step at a time, until he was in front of me.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," I whispered.

"You saw? My father in handcuffs. Because of you. Because of your recorder. Because you were brave last night."

"Is... is it over?"

"No," he said. "It's just starting. Interpol will now go for Luca Moretti in Sicily. With Enzo's confession, Luca will get 25 years. My father will get life. He is 70. He will die in prison. And the Sicilian shipment will never come to Lake Como. The lake will be clean."

He reached out and touched the diamond necklace on my neck, adjusting it gently.

"You kept it on all night."

"You told me to keep it on."

"I did."

"And you told me to take off fear. I did. I slept without fear for the first time in two years."

"Good."

We stood on the stairs, looking at each other. Morning sun from the window behind made dust dance around us. Church bell had stopped. Only lake waves outside.

"Killian," I said.

"Yes?"

"What about our contract? 30 days? Day 3 today. What do I have to take off today if I fail to kill you? I didn't kill you last night either."

He smiled. That devil smile that made me both angry and... something else.

"Today you already failed to kill me, because you were sleeping and drooling on my pillow. So technically you owe me one clothing."

"I was not drooling!"

"You were. A little. It's cute."

"What do you want today?"

He looked at my outfit — his t-shirt, his sweatpants rolled up, bandaged feet, necklace.

"Today," he said, stepping closer, his voice low so his men downstairs couldn't hear, "today I want you to take off that NBI badge you keep in your small bag hidden under the bed. That badge 0719. Take it off. Not your clothes. Your badge. For one day. Today, don't be Agent Elara Cruz, NBI, sister of dead driver, spy who came to kill me. Today, just be Elara. My Elara. Who wears my t-shirt and my mother's necklace and drinks warm milk with honey and screams her brother's name into lakes. Just for one day. Can you take off your badge for one day?"

I stared at him. Take off my badge. Not clothes. Badge. My identity for two years — revenge, NBI, justice.

Take it off and just be Elara.

I thought of Marco. Would he want me to be just Elara for one day? Not the avenging sister?

Yes. He would. He always told me: "Elara, you study too much. Be a girl sometimes. Wear red dress. Dance."

Yesterday I wore red dress. And danced... well, almost, with a gun on the pier.

"Okay," I whispered. "Today I take off badge. I am just Elara."

"Good girl," he whispered, and leaned forward and kissed my forehead, soft, warm, his lips lingering for a second longer than a forehead kiss should.

Signora Russo shouted from downstairs: "Breakfast is ready! Pancakes! For Miss Elara! With blueberries! Because Mr. Killian said she likes blueberries!"

Killian laughed. "I told her you like blueberries. Do you like blueberries?"

"I love blueberries!"

"Good. Then come, Mafia Queen with no pants and bandaged feet and diamond necklace, let's eat pancakes and watch Lake Como turn blue in the morning, and plan how to put Luca Moretti in prison next."

He took my hand — bandaged feet and all — and led me downstairs to the kitchen, where pancakes with blueberries were waiting, and the lake outside the window was indeed turning from black to blue, just like he said last night when he told me to take off fear and think of blue lake.

Day 3. My father, the devil's father, in handcuffs. My brother's killer confessed.

And I, Agent Elara Cruz, took off my badge for one day and became just Elara, eating blueberry pancakes with the Devil in his black kitchen, wearing his mother's diamond necklace.

27 days left in the contract.

And I didn't want to leave.