4. Portia
PORTIA
The second Joe answers the phone, I’m coughing on the other end.
“I’m sorry to call you like this,” I sputter between coughs. “But I’m going to have to take a sick day. I’ve caught a bug.”
“You don’t sound too hot,” he says, sighing. “My wife did mention something going around at my son’s school. It must be worse than I thought.”
I cough a few more times. “I’ve got a temperature and the chills. It’s definitely nothing to sneeze at.”
“Well… guess that means you and Barry’ll be out today. Do you need anything, sweetheart?”
Before I can even respond, he’s cutting me off, mentioning his other line. The call drops, and I’m left listening to the dial tone, reminded once again why I’ve come to hate life working for Primetime DC.
I really should expect it at this point.
A network like ANC and people like Joe Germanotta only care about optics. If you can’t do anything for their reputation or to curry them favor, then they don’t give a fuck about you.
But in this case, Joe’s lack of attentiveness works in my favor.
Let him disregard me.
It’s not as if I’m being totally honest myself. The second we’re off the phone, I’m rushing through my apartment. Already dressed in a hoodie and jeans, I pass by the console table in my living room and scoop up my purse on my way to the door.
It’s barely even eight in the morning, yet downtown DC is bustling.
From the moment I leave my doorstep, I’m inundated by the loud rush of traffic and people going about their mornings.
In hopes of some semblance of anonymity, I pop on my sunglasses and walk among them, heading straight for the subway.
There’s always the chance someone might notice me. Word could get back to Joe at the station.
Questions could arise. Why would I be on the streets if I called in sick, claiming I was running a temperature?
But it’s a risk I’m going to have to take.
Anonymous and I have agreed to meet at a quasi-public location. For days I’ve dragged my feet on what to do—with Jayla and Baron serving as an angel and devil on my shoulders—but the gala was the final driving force.
If men like Joe Germanotta and Chuck Whitmore want to diminish my career and the work I’ve done, then I’m going to prove them wrong.
I’m going to show them I was right. I’m going to blow the damn lid off the corruption and expose the hold organized crime families have on major cities across the country.
And I’m going to start with the murder of someone that was ruled a suicide.
It’s enough to keep my mind off the other thing that happened last night—the run-in I had with Rafael at the gala, our first time seeing each other in months.
Twelve hours later, I’ve refused to let my mind linger on any of it.
Not a tense look, not a longing touch, not the charged air that lingered between us.
Thinking about it for even a second is dangerous. It’s enough to unravel me and send me back into my post-breakup spiral.
I have to focus on what’s important: my investigation into criminals like Il Diavolo, the Belluccis, and the Tucos.
I ride the subway to the Smithsonian station and get off among the crowd of travelers. Because the anonymous person claims they’re coming from out of town, they demanded we meet at a neutral middle ground.
The Enid A. Haupt Botanical Garden ended up being the location we settled on. Something public, but not too public. Private, but not so private that either of us are in danger.
I arrive first. Few people are around.
The area stretches on for miles, carefully manicured in picturesque fashion. Mosaic paths lead through flower beds and shady alcoves. At the center stands what’s known as the Moongate Garden, a circular stone portal that’s said to bring good fortune.
I check the time on my phone more than once and find I have several texts.
None from Anonymous. Mom and Dad have messaged me—drunk texting again—about some nudist beach they’re visiting on their cruise.
I have another message from Jayla asking me about the password to the Wi-Fi, and then a text from Baron wishing me luck on today’s endeavor.
He’s the only one who knows about Anonymous and what I’m doing here at the botanical garden.
I’m in the middle of replying when I sense someone approaching. It’s a woman who’s had the same idea that I’ve had—she’s in a hoodie and gigantic sunglasses as she approaches, throwing cautious glances left and right.
She can’t be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one.
As she approaches, I’m half tempted to ask if she should be on a university campus somewhere.
But she seems to recognize me as she stops a few feet away and then asks if I’ve come alone.
“What does it look like?” I ask.
“It looks like one thing,” she snaps. “But it could be something else. There’s a lot of trees. A lot of bushes. How do I know somebody’s not hiding?”
“You’re just going to have to take that chance. You reached out to me , remember?”
“You’re the only one who cares. The only one who bothered to ask questions!”
“Slow down,” I say calmly. I take a page out of her book and glance around us.
We’re alone, with only a single tourist passing in the distance.
I motion toward the stone bench nearby so we can sit and have a real talk.
The girl hesitates, then follows my lead.
“You obviously know who I am. Time for me to know a little about you. Tell me who you are.”
She goes rigid beside me, her throat tight as she swallows. “I’m… I’m Ally. Uncle Ben’s niece. And apparently the only family member who gives a fuck about his suicide .”
I almost let out a disbelieving laugh. Not because I find anything remotely amusing about Benjamin Sigler’s suicide. But because that was the story the authorities went with.
Benjamin Sigler who had no documented history of mental health issues and exhibited little to no signs of depression, out of the blue decided to kill himself.
It wasn’t totally unheard of, but when you’re talking about someone who was rumored to have once worked for the mob?
It was more convenient than anything.
That’s not even getting into all the sketchy details surrounding Sigler’s autopsy report, like how it was “misplaced” for weeks only to magically turn up.
“I’m sorry about your uncle,” I say after a pause. “I didn’t know him well, but he did do the right thing in the end. He did want to speak out against the Belluccis.”
Ally releases a shuddery breath, staring at her hands in her lap. “It’s not just Uncle Ben they took. It’s Uncle Jacob too. They got him first. That’s what made Ben want his revenge.”
“I remember; he told me.”
“They don’t give a shit about the lives they ruin. The families they destroy.”
She’s wearing sunglasses, but I can tell she’s crying—the closer I look, the clearer the tears slipping down her round cheeks are. She sniffles and mops them away before digging inside the pocket of her hoodie.
“I was going through some stuff back at our house. Uncle Ben had his own apartment, but back when he was doing work for the Belluccis, sometimes he’d sleep over. Anyway, I went in his old room and came across some things that seem… I don’t know… important.”
My gaze drops to what she’s holding, which seems to be a few crumpled sheets of paper. Brows knitting, I accept what she hands over, taking a moment to process what I’m seeing.
The first is some kind of torn piece of notebook paper that appears to be in Benjamin Sigler’s handwriting. At the top it says directions and beneath there are line-by-line instructions on how to get to a written address.
It happens to be Carrick, the same city the freight train was supposed to arrive from the night I tried to track the drug shipments so many months ago.
“Is this…” I ask slowly. “Is this the address to the Belluccis’ lab? Where they develop Nectar?”
“I’m pretty sure it is,” Ally answers. “My uncle used to make some runs for them. Back when they were in the testing phase. Or so he said. I don’t know much more.”
My gaze returns to the papers in my lap, shifting to the second one, which seems to be some kind of shipping form. The document is so old the paper has yellowed and the ink has partially faded, but it’s still legible enough I can read the company name at the top.
“RossoVerde Biochemica,” I read aloud, scanning the rest.
The company address is in Ragusa, Sicily.
The items being shipped were pharmaceutical resin, botanical extracts, and aromatic solvents. For what purpose, I’m not sure. But the delivery address matches the one listed on the torn notebook paper in Benjamin Sigler’s handwriting.
“I’m not sure what that is,” Ally says as if voicing my thoughts. “But I noticed they matched so I brought both. Seems like they were shipping stuff for the lab. Maybe for whatever they were making?”
I don’t say anything. I’m too distracted by the last thing sitting in my lap.
It’s not a sheet of paper like I initially thought. It’s a grainy print of a photograph. Presumably taken in secret by Sigler with his cellphone, the photo shows some kind of lab with a group of armed men surrounding another man.
A masked man.
I recognize him immediately.
The night in the Bellucci warehouse comes back to immediately. I’d first gone to U4EA hoping to land a lead that connected the Belluccis to the new street drug only to follow Sergio Sacrimoni and his men to the Bellucci drug warehouse.
There sat Il Diavolo himself on his throne.
He was formidable and terrifying, a devil mask obscuring his true identity.
I recognize him in this photo—his dark suit and hair, the unsettling mask he wears, the natural air of confidence and dominance that he carried.
Just seeing a photo of him makes my stomach flutter. It sends a ripple of nerves through me, my breath running shorter.
I lick at my lips and mutter, “Thank you for bringing me this.”
Ally shrugs. “You seem to be the only one willing to do something. Just promise me one thing, okay? Make them assholes pay. Bring them down.”
It’s late in the morning when I finally make it back to my apartment. The evidence Ally Sigler gave me is tucked away inside my purse. The first thing I do once I’m inside and I’ve locked the door is head toward my closet to hide what she’s given me.
All three items are safely stowed inside a shoe box at the very back. It’s where they’ll remain until I’m able to build the rest of the story. They’re some of the first pieces of tangible evidence I’ve been able to collect against the Belluccis.
But just in case, I’ve taken screenshots. I’ve saved copies.
You can never be too careful when you’re investigating the mob.
I often felt like I was being watched when I lived in Newport. That feeling hasn’t gone away in DC. In a lot of ways, it’s gotten worse—and so has my paranoia.
I shut the curtains at every window and double check the locks on the door. That’s after spending my entire trip back home looking over my shoulder at every turn.
It wouldn’t at all surprise me if someone were watching me.
The real question would be… why? What is their intention?
My intuition tells me just what. I’ve learned, even after last night at the gala, it’s more often than not right. It rarely leads me astray, and it’s something I should listen to. If I’m going all in on this investigation, then I need to do whatever is necessary.
Even if it means opening up old wounds…
I pick up my phone and start typing up a reply to a message I’d left on read.
If you’re still in town, we can do dinner.
Rafael answers almost immediately.
I‘ll be in DC for another day. Tonight work for you? 7 pm?
Sounds perfect.