The next morning, I woke up with a sore throat and a smile I don’t want to examine too closely.
Mia bursts into the room without knocking because boundaries are for people who don’t share tour buses.
“Emergency,” she announces, waving my new phone like a baton.
“If that’s about me being canceled, I already assumed,” I croak.
“Worse,” she says. “It’s Rafael.”
That gets my attention.
I sit up. “Put him on.”
“He’s on this,” she says, tossing the phone to me. “And he is Very Not Pleased.”
The screen flashes **RAFAEL** and a string of increasingly aggressive missed calls.
I swipe to answer before he can hang up and call the FBI.
“Raf,” I say. “Before you yell, I—”
“Where the hell are you?” he cuts in. “And if you say ‘resting’ I will fly to Sicily and drag you out of whatever gilded
