1. Portia
PORTIA
PRESENT DAY…
“I wish you could stay forever.”
Jayla frowns at my words, then reaches across the table to grab my hand.
The two of us are at Vesper & Ivy in Logan Circle, enjoying one last night on the town before she flies out tomorrow.
We’re seated in a corner table as the rest of the trendy lounge socializes against the backdrop of mood lighting and slow jazz.
We came for their parmesan truffle fries and stayed for their Vesper Bloom, the establishment’s signature drink—a chilled lavender gin cocktail rimmed with edible gold.
I brought Jayla here the first night she flew into DC, and it’s been her favorite ever since. Now, as we each polish off our third Vesper Bloom of the night, I pour my heart out in tipsy fashion.
“I’m so alone,” I sigh. “All the people here are whack, Jay.”
“Sissy, have you even tried to put yourself out there?”
“Define put myself out there.”
“Network! Go to events!” Jayla says, grabbing her cocktail glass and draining the last of it. “Remember all those charity dinners and galas you used go to? You were so good at that in Newport!”
I scoff, half slumping in my chair. “What’s the point? It’s not the same.”
“Okay, Miss Woe-is-me,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Have you forgotten you’re the one who chose to quit your life in Newport and move to DC for a job offer?”
“You should’ve stopped me… somehow…”
“What was I supposed to do? Keep you chained up in our apartment? Sissy, you know I’m way too irresponsible— and lazy—for all that. You’re the one who reminds me to eat, remember? Do you really want me in charge of the grocery shopping?”
The glum, pouty expression on my face slips away for the laugh I let out.
Jayla has a point.
I was usually the one who kept our apartment up to speed. She’s the flightier, more carefree sister while I’m the overly analytical, organized one who keeps lists for my lists. I thrive on keeping things neat and orderly while she tends to feed off chaos.
It’s part of what has always made us such a good duo. Cousins by birth, sisters by adoption, and best friends by choice, we perfectly balance each other out.
Up until a couple months ago, we lived together in Newport City. Jayla was getting her salon off the ground while I was excelling as an evening field reporter for Metro News.
And then Rafael Calderone happened.
I went against every stubborn instinct that screamed at me to avoid him. He had already played me in Sicily over two years before. Was I really about to let him do it to me again?
Unfortunately, the infamous saying turned out to be true.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…
“Sissy,” Jayla says, forcing me back to the present. “Do you want another Vesper Bloom?”
I blink and realize our server has returned to our table. I pick up my cocktail glass with a few more swallows left of the lavender drink and down it in one go. “Sure,” I answer. “You can bring us both another.”
Jayla laughs. “I know exactly who you were just thinking about. You know that, right?”
Fast forward another hour later, we’re leaving Vesper & Ivy arm in arm. We’re both a little tipsy after so many cocktails, giggling over silly childhood memories like the time we snuck out with Dad’s car only to curb check on a turn and pop the front right tire.
“It’s not my fault the curb was in the way!” Jayla exclaims.
I snort back a laugh. “You mean the curb that was literally there since the road was paved? Definitely not your fault!”
“Shut up, sissy! Remember the time you went to that party and your fast little behind drank all that beer, then you puked on the front doorstep?”
“It was my first time drinking! I had no idea I’d get that drunk off two beers!”
Our back-and-forth continues until the Uber drops us off in front of my apartment building.
When we finally make it up to my place, Jayla slurs something about hopping in the shower so she can actually get some beauty rest.
“You know how much I hate travel days,” she mumbles. “I need my sleep if I’m going to have to be dealing with TSA.”
The bathroom door snaps shut, and I’m left alone in the living room, a harsh reality crashing over me.
Tonight really is Jayla’s last night in DC.
Tomorrow, she’ll board a plane back to Newport, and everything I’ve been avoiding for the past week and a half since she’s come to visit will be waiting for me.
All the loneliness. All the dissatisfaction at work.
All the heartbreak I’ve refused to deal with since my breakup with Rafael.
I’ve tried so hard to hold it together these past few months, but as time goes by, it becomes damn near impossible.
Jayla visiting was a reprieve. A breath of fresh air at a time I’d started to question if I made a huge mistake.
I retreat into my bedroom to the distant sounds of the shower.
When I first moved into my new place, I went all in decorating. I painted the walls a lavender gray and furnished each room with a feminine minimalist vibe. Sleek and narrow furniture. Tasteful mix of patterns and textures. Occasional pops of color.
But once I was done measuring every photo frame and rearranging the bookshelf in the living room to my satisfaction, I realized it was just a distraction.
I would actually have to form a new life here in DC. Truly start over after Newport.
It sounded easier than it actually was. Instead, all I’ve done for the past few months is work, work, and more work.
And then come straight home to keep myself company.
I plop down on the side of my bed and draw my nightstand drawer open. Inside are things like my sleep mask, some lip balm, a dream journal, and a folded up piece of paper.
The piece of paper Rafael left for me that morning.
I’m not even sure why I haven’t ripped it up and tossed it out. What good has keeping it done, except to make it impossible to move on?
But every time I have tried to crumple it up or throw it away, I’ve stopped myself. I’ve folded it back up and put it away, like it’s some memento to hang onto to.
“What’s wrong with me?” I mumble under my breath.
My fingers skip over the folded paper and move onto one of the other things I keep in the drawer.
The vibrator buzzes to life as I glance at the door to make sure it’s closed, then lay back on my bed. It’s been a long night of cocktails, and I need to find release somehow. My eyes snap shut as I slide the vibrator into my panties and press it up against my clit.
Pleasure immediately echoes through me.
I grind back against the vibrator and let my imagination run wild. The four walls of my bedroom fall away for a different bedroom altogether. Though almost as familiar.
Suddenly, I’m lying in the middle of a large king-sized bed. Moans fall freely from my lips. The man in between my thighs strokes deeper into me and then silences me with a kiss. His hands canvas my body, his wide palms sliding over my breasts and stomach and hips.
His touch feels so good. His dick even better.
I’m lost to the pleasure he inflicts on me. Every roll of his hips is designed to unravel me. Bring me to new heights as my orgasm rises like a tidal wave.
His dark eyes gleam watching me fall apart.
“ Sei così bella quando vieni sul mio cazzo .”
I can barely see straight, eyes on the ceiling. The orgasm washes over me, and Rafael’s strokes only pick up speed?—
And then the fantasy is over and I’m left listening to the buzz of the vibrator and the sounds of the shower in the next room.
I blink dazedly, switching off the vibrator and sitting up on the bed. The buzzing continues, drawing my brows together until I realize it’s my phone. The screen has lit up to notify me I’ve received a text message.
Face still flushed from self-pleasure, I set aside the little purple toy and reach for my phone. The text is from an unknown number, which would normally mean spam, but then I read what it says and there’s an instant pull inside my stomach.
you’re the only one i can send this to
no one else cares about his death
they’ll get away with it like they get away with everything
Frowning, I quickly reply to the message.
Whose death?
A second goes by where the person on the other end hesitates, then three dots appear as they type a slow response.
Benjamin Sigler
For the rest of the weekend, I’m a hermit in my apartment. Once I say goodbye to Jayla at the airport, I don’t come out again until Monday morning.
But it’s not as if I don’t find ways to keep myself busy.
I binge watch a new TV show on Netflix. Catch up with an old friend from college and even have an hour-long call with Baron, my old field producer at Metro News. I work out in the living room and get some cleaning done.
All while keeping my mind off things that threaten to take over my thoughts.
Rafael Calderone being the most obvious topic pushing its way to the front, but what else is new? Even months after our breakup, I still can’t stop thinking about him.
There are other things too—my constant second-guessing whether I’ve made the right decision moving from Newport to DC and how much I miss my old life. Jayla’s visit has only hammered this point home.
And then there’s the mysterious text I received last night.
Someone reached out about Benjamin Sigler’s death. It sent shockwaves through me, drawing my mind back to last winter.
I’d been determined to blow the lid off the mob war between the Bellucci and Tuco families, eventually making contact with an associate named Benjamin Sigler.
Relations between him and the Belluccis had soured after his brother was offed for betraying their trust. After that, he was willing to sell any info on the crime family to the highest bidder—or even blab for free to anonymous media reps like me.
…and then he turned up dead.