2. Rafael
RAFAEL
“Newport is yours,” Adagio says with an impressed nod and sip of his bourbon. “But now that you’ve conquered the city, what’s next? The country?”
We’re seated at the cigar lounge Il Salotto Nero, otherwise known as the Black Parlor in English.
It’s a member’s only club located in one of Newport’s more aristocratic neighborhoods.
A mere half block down from the Newport Plaza, Il Salotto Nero is perhaps one of the most exclusive places in the city.
Hidden behind an unmarked mahogany door, the lounge is invitation only.
Almost exclusively used by the rich and powerful to conduct dealings too unsavory for anywhere else.
The lounge makes for the perfect atmosphere to do so—rich wood paneling and black-and-gold wallpaper cover the walls, lit up by amber-hued sconces and green glass banker lamps at every table.
The floor itself consists of a dozen-odd tables and plenty of plush leather armchairs, all hazed in curls of cigar smoke.
It’s dark, moody, and luxurious, which is all anyone visiting needs.
As Adagio speaks, I nurse my own drink. I’m sipping on some Grappa, an Italian grape brandy that reminds me of home.
I’m due for a trip back to Sicily soon. Don Vito and the others expect it of me.
But Adagio is correct when he says I’ve taken over the city.
The past four months have been some of the most profitable months in the Bellucci family’s reign, and it’s all been thanks to me.
The new psychedelic we launched onto the market, known as Nectar, has been a runaway smash success.
We’ve expanded from selling in clubs to supplying numerous private wholesale buyers and even other territories in the city.
And we’re only getting started—the mycologists on my payroll are in the process of developing an even stronger version of the drug. Nationwide domination doesn’t sound half bad.
“We’ll see,” I answer finally, remaining cryptic. “I have many other ventures to explore.”
Adagio grins. “Il Diavolo won’t be happy ’til he rules the world.”
“The Tucos refuse to accept it,” Maurizio chimes in.
My brutal, brooding lead enforcer sits in the third armchair, forgoing a drink and indulging only in a cigar.
Famously nicknamed Ice Pick for a vicious takedown of fifteen men singlehandedly with nothing more than the sharp tool used as a weapon, he likes to remain sober when out in public.
Even places as discreet as Il Salotto Nero.
He puffs on his cigar and blows out more smoke.
“They still believe they have a fighting chance.”
“I would too if I were as delusional as Titus Tuco,” laughs Adagio. “You see that hair piece he wears? As if Stevie Wonder can’t tell it’s a toupee.”
A half-grin forms at the corner of my mouth. “You would resort to insulting his looks.”
“But am I lying?” he asks. “If you’re losing your hair, then call it a day. Shave the shit off.”
“What would you be without your hair, belloccio?” Maurizio asks. “Would women like Jayla still throw themselves at you?”
“Yes, leccaculo, because I’m charming. Try it sometime.”
I roll my eyes as my two confidants trade barbs. It wouldn’t be the first time. Though Adagio and Maurizio work well together as a team, providing the perfect backup I need, their opposite demeanors mean they sometimes clash.
“I can be,” Maurizio answers him. “But charm involves more than flashy cars and wads of cash.”
“You mean crushing skulls?” Adagio sneers. “That’s sure to drop some panties.”
“Since when do my two lead soldiers bicker like whiny schoolgirls?” I ask.
“We’re taking cues from our leader, Diavolo,” Adagio says, shooting me a subtle grin over the rim of his bourbon. “Your obsession has gone nowhere since she left.”
I pin him with a cold, scolding look. “Quando ho detto che avrei smesso di essere ossessionato?”
“Very true,” he concedes. “You’ve accepted it’s for life.”
“If only she knew,” adds Maurizio.
“She doesn’t need to know,” I say darkly, glaring at the cigar haze circling us. “All that matters is she’s safe and starting over. Moving on from me and her life in Newport.”
It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was what was necessary.
Portia was never going to give up her investigations. Not if she still resided in Newport where la cosa nostra ran rampant. She was always going to be curious, always going to be on the lookout for the next big scoop. She admitted it herself.
Even in the aftermath of what happened at the docks, mia dolcezza was determined to bring an end to the Bellucci and Tuco crime families.
It didn’t matter how risky it was or how much danger it put her in. She would pursue answers regardless.
I had no other choice but to send her away. For her safety and my discretion.
But it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought of her every day she’s been away. That I haven’t devised other means to… keep an eye on her.
Portia James is the only woman I will ever want. There is no other woman who could ever compare.
I simply haven’t figured out how to make our relationship work long term; how to get Portia to overlook perhaps the biggest flaw imaginable in her eyes. That I’m more than just a renowned businessman named Rafael Calderone.
I’m the ruthless, cunning Il Diavolo from the Bellucci empire that she’s dedicated much of her career to bringing down.
She wants Il Diavolo behind bars. The last thing she wants is to fall in love with him.
There’s no simple solution to such a dilemma. If there was one, I would’ve pursued it a long time ago. So, instead, I’m left to admire mia dolcezza from afar. I’m still the violent, bloodthirsty mafia capo that would horrify her, and I’m also the lovesick man craving the woman he’s infatuated with.
I swirl the Grappa in my glass before taking another sip. “I have the Dominion Honors Gala tomorrow night.”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll run into her?” Adagio asks, lifting a brow. His blue eyes twinkle as he poses the question, like he already knows the answer.
I haven’t decided yet if it means I’ll run into Portia or not. It’ll be the first time in four months that we’ve been in the same city together. She’ll be within a few miles of me. The temptation is almost too much, and I haven’t even traveled to DC yet.
Will I truly be able to resist mia dolcezza once we’re in the same area?
I’ve done well keeping thoughts of her relegated to late at night, or other times I’m not deep in business or matters of the family.
But that doesn’t mean she isn’t a constant lingering in the corners of my mind.
The faintest hint of her—from a soft note of her perfume to an old video of hers on Metro News—is enough to make me spiral.
I’ve had to avoid all broadcasts of the American News Channel to keep from seeing her and relapsing like some drug addict.
There’s no recovering from such an affliction. My obsession with her is for life.
I swallow more Grappa, the dry, woody taste on my tongue, and finally answer his question. “She won’t be at the event. Her news channel is sending someone else to cover it.”
Adagio and Maurizio share a quick, knowing look I don’t bother admonishing them for. They know as well as I do how deep my fixation goes. They’re aware there’s no cure for it.
So long as I’m alive, whether as Rafael or my sinister alter ego Il Diavolo, Portia James will be the object of my desire…
It’s late in the evening when I return to my penthouse after drinks with Adagio and Maurizio. Most of my staff is gone except the few I keep available overnight for security purposes or other conveniences.
I tug my tie loose as I wander through the open space only dimly lit by the fireplace and a few sconces lining the walls.
There’re also the city lights that twinkle from the floor-to-ceiling windows at any given hour.
My entire living room offers a panoramic view of downtown Newport’s financial district. For as long as I’ve lived here, it’s more than been the perfect location for a man like me—it’s represented everything Rafael Calderone the businessman represents.
Money. Power. Domination.
Not only do I work and own much of this district, I live here too. I breathe its air and am so inescapable, I’ve infiltrated just about every part of it.
As the days go by, that’s increasingly the case for the entire city.
Il Diavolo takes over by the day. He’s rising fast on a trajectory nothing and nobody can stop.
Not the city authorities. Not Titus Tuco and his minions. Damn sure not Don Vito, though he hasn’t realized it yet.
He still believes I’m under his thumb.
That he’s the one who’s in charge. He’s in for a rude awakening.
I make myself a fresh drink and then stop in front of the big screen where the control panel is located. It operates every camera, tracking device, and surveillance system I have set up from here to DC.
When the screen lights up at the push of a button, it’s already on the channels I want to watch.
All my favorites.
Each one dedicated to Portia in a different way—various rooms in her apartment, maps of DC that show me where she’s located in the city at any point in time, even Primetime DC where she works.
I rewind through old footage from the day since the hour is late and she’s already safe and sound in bed.
Somewhat crazy? Possibly. Intrusive? She would say so.
But I’ve become accustomed to having Portia James in my life, and if I don’t get my daily fix, it knocks my whole world off balance.
It started innocently enough years ago with her morning news broadcasts and then escalated to staging a fake vacation trip where we ran into each other and got to meet.
Now it’s turned into me surveilling her from hundreds of miles away.
Sitting in a dark room, sipping on cognac, watching replays of her day just so I know it went okay.
How else am I supposed to know how she’s doing?
She won’t answer the phone if I text or call. We haven’t been on speaking terms since she left Newport, which was what I wanted at the time.
For her protection, it was for the best.
But that didn’t mean it was easy. That it didn’t make it any less torturous day after day, having to go without the contact.
I fast forward through her morning as she arrives to work dressed as impeccably and tastefully as always, wearing a tangerine dress that pops with her brown skin tone.
That’s one thing about Portia; she’s always been a classy woman that dresses to the nines.
It’s one of the first things that caught my eye about her.
I speed up through more of her day, pausing here and there at different parts that seem of interest.
It’s not until I reach her last meeting of the day that I pause altogether. Joe Germanotta heads the meeting with the cast and crew for Primetime DC. They discuss tonight’s broadcast and go over details about the show.
Toward the end, Portia brings up a change she’d like to make.
Portia being Portia, wants to get rid of some fluff piece segment about viral TikToks and replace it with something more hard-hitting, more relevant to everyday issues plaguing the city.
Joe wants no part of it, shutting down the conversation at once.
She’s right, of course—the mob is expanding our reach. We do have street guys working in other major metropolitan cities selling our products and hitting up those markets.
Joe himself knows this better than anybody. He’s on my payroll, after all.
But it’s not just the fact he’s turned down Portia’s idea that pisses me off. It’s what comes after the broadcast that evening that does.
As her co-anchor Barry Bexley steps off the set complaining about his makeup during the broadcast and Portia lingers behind to gather her things, Joe sidles up for a one-on-one.
I lean in closer to the big screen, sitting up from my reclined position on the leather sectional. My glass of cognac is still in my hand as I do, my gaze hardening.
“Portia, I was wondering if we could have a word,” he says. “It’s about earlier during the meeting.”
Her brows knit before she gives a terse nod. It’s the only response she offers.
“I wanted to make it clear where we stand. Hopefully so we’re on the same page.
You’ve been a welcome addition to the Primetime team, and we’d love to keep you on,” he explains, his lips slanting in a lopsided grin.
“It’s obvious you’ve got a lot of talent, sweetheart. Anybody with eyes can see that.”
My grip tightens on my glass. Portia remains silent, but even on the TV screen, I can tell she’s barely holding back. I can see the slight dilation of her pupils and flare of her nostrils.
“It’s best if you leave the big decisions to men like me,” he finishes.
“And you do what you do best. Smile and read the lines on the script, alright? It’s so easy, even Bexley does it—and he gets paid millions.
You’ll be there someday too, sweetheart.
If you play the game correctly. Are we on the same page? ”
For a couple of seconds that drag on, it seems like she’s tempted to tell him to shove his script up his ass. I know Portia James well enough to read her mind by looking at the expression on her face.
But then, at the very last second, she decides against it. She forces on a smile, blinking away the anger and offense and sweetening her voice.
“Of course,” she answers. “I understand.”
“I knew you would. You came highly recommended for a reason.”
Only Joe is naive enough to believe she’s serious and not simply telling him what he wants to hear. Portia glares at him as he turns his back and walks away.
I’m glaring at him through the TV screen.
I drain the last of the cognac, resorting to crunching on ice once it’s all gone.
My flight into DC isn’t supposed to get in until an hour before the Dominion Gala started tomorrow night, but I’ve decided there’s a last-minute change of plans.
As it turns out, I have a pitstop to make on my way to the gala.
It’s time I pay my employee Joe Germanotta a visit and make sure he knows who he works for, and that his boss doesn’t appreciate when he talks down to his woman…