1. Portia #2
It was only the beginning of what seemed to be a concerted effort to squash my investigation.
I was the lone journalist in Newport looking to expose the organized crime families.
They were locked in a race to release some new psychedelic drug onto the streets.
The deeper I dug, the more I made contact with inside sources like Sigler, the deadlier the risks became.
Not only was Sigler permanently silenced, but I became a prime target of mobsters like Il Diavolo from the Bellucci family and Titus Tuco from the Tucos.
So who sent me the text from the unknown number?
They refused to identify themselves when I asked who they were. They claimed there would be more discretion if we met in person to discuss Sigler.
I’ve yet to agree, leaving them on read for the duration of the weekend.
How can I take the chance that this unknown number isn’t some trap? How do I know it’s not someone from the Bellucci or Tuco syndicates trying to lure me out? Some attempt of theirs to finish what they started in Newport and off me?
The mob rarely lets people off the hook…
Mom and Dad FaceTime me on Sunday evening to gush about their latest cruise—a fourteen night excursion across the Mediterranean they’re four days into.
“Portia baby, you need to tell your father to stop!” Mom says loudly, a little tipsy off rosé wine. “He was stripping at the pool! Big ol’ belly out and all!”
“Now, Martha, don’t go telling my business!” Dad slurs, nudging Mom partially out of the camera frame. He leans in close, the angle awkward considering its from below. “Portia, tell your mother to stop snitchin’.”
I chuckle. “You’re both a mess. How much have you had to drink?”
“Dunno,” answers Dad. “They have unlimited drinks for Premier members.”
“That’s us!” Mom cackles, holding up her glass with a bright paper umbrella hanging off the side.
“I can tell.”
“You… you and Jay need to come with us on our next one!” hiccups Dad. “Eight night trip across Iceland and Norway. Now I know what you’re thinking—sounds sorta bland, right? But wait ’til you hear about the… hic… amenities. Jacuzzi.”
“Free drinks,” Mom rattles off.
“IMAX theater,” Dad adds. “Massages.”
“Jacuzzi,” Mom says. “Oh… wait. You said that one!”
They’re both cracking up in laughter as I shake my head and tell them to call me tomorrow… when they’re sober. Leave it to Mom and Dad to soak up their best carefree retiree life.
It’s the distant future I’ve always envisioned with the man I fall in love with and marry.
Some point later when we’ve raised our children and are empty nesters that can go on adventures together. When I married Lincoln, I thought that would be us in another thirty years. I had no idea we wouldn’t even make it past five.
As if you and Rafael stood a better chance.
I shake off the bitter thought about the man who always slips into my mind and return to the book I’m reading.
Come Monday morning, I waltz into the studio for Primetime DC dressed to the nines. One thing Mom taught me from a young age was you feel as good as you dress. If you look good, you usually feel good.
I’m in a lightweight tangerine midi dress with a belt and block heels as I strut into the studio and earn a few passing compliments. I’ve pulled my hair into a low bun and left my bangs out with some longer tendrils to frame my face.
For most of the day, I’m in meetings and rehearsal for this evening’s broadcast. Being a studio-based anchor is different from a field reporter. It’s taken me a while to adjust, but I’m finally growing used to cohosting my own hour-long news show.
As we review tonight’s broadcast and executive producer Joe Germanotta leans back in his chair asking for any further input, I raise my hand to add my two cents.
“I have some ideas for a new segment,” I say, passing around copies of a draft I’ve typed up.
“It’s no secret DC is suffering the fate many big cities do—organized crime is starting to sink its hooks into the local community.
We give it enough time, they’re going to take over like they have in other cities.
I think it’s about time we add a segment to the show to address this issue.
We could probably do away with the one about viral TikToks, don’t you think?
I mean, do people really need to know about a cat that skateboards? ”
Joe skims the page with halfhearted interest, his glasses low on his nose, then makes a grunt. “Portia, sweetheart, how many times have we been over this? Primetime DC doesn’t touch organized crime.”
“But the mafia’s influence is spreading. It’s an issue that’s relevant to today?—”
“Not in DC,” he interrupts sharply. “I think you might have us confused with Newport. You’re not at Metro anymore.”
A few colleagues at the table chuckle, sharing glances with each other.
My cheeks warm, the back of my neck prickling with the same heat. But I press on anyway, sticking to my convictions.
“Are you sure you have your finger on the pulse of DC, Mr. Germanotta?” I ask. “Because there’s credible evidence to show the Bellucci crime family has men on our streets?—”
“Ms. James, that’s enough,” he snaps, teeth gritted. “This meeting is adjourned. Everyone needs to begin preparations for tonight’s broadcast. That includes you . The show remains as previously discussed.”
I leave the meeting room half tempted to go back in and argue him some more on it.
Half tempted to go so far as to put my foot down and tell him I refuse to report on another stupid viral TikTok about a grandmother who weight-lifts two hundred pounds, and I’d rather quit and return to Newport if I have no other option?—
But then my phone buzzes in the pocket of my dress. I stop halfway down the hall as others from the meeting rush past me, eager to get started prepping for this evening’s broadcast.
My thumb swipes over the phone screen to reveal another text message from the same unknown number.
he didn’t kill himself
you know he didn’t
i have proof