6. Rafael
RAFAEL
Her scent lingers even in my sleep. It’s a blend of floral notes like roses and jasmine with a hint of something warmer and spicier, like sandalwood. I’ve come to memorize the smell, finding it both soothing and arousing all at once.
I turn over in bed, eyes still closed, arm stretching out to reach for her. For no other reason than because it’s instinctual. Some intrinsic urge of mine even after so many months apart. I reach for the woman I’m obsessed with like I expect to find her in my bed.
Then the morning sun floods me and I jerk awake, realizing the curtains must be open and I must’ve slept in.
I never sleep in. My idea of sleeping in is waking up minutes before dawn.
So as I sit up in bed and the sunlight bursts into the room and the clock on the hotel nightstand reads ten in the fucking morning, needless to say, I’m shocked.
Where did the time go? And more importantly, what the hell happened last night?
I run a hand through my already disheveled hair and look around the room. My clothes are discarded on the other side, slung over an armchair like I’d been in a rush.
There’s a bottle of Cabernet on the table by the balcony and two near-empty glasses. The second has red lipstick on the rim…
The last thing I remember about the night was dinner. I’d invited Portia to Sullivans for dinner. She was a few minutes late, which was unlike her, but then she turned up. The image of her entering the front doors materializes in my head, backlit by the amber lighting.
She’d looked so damn gorgeous in a sleek black dress and red lipstick.
I rose to my feet to meet her and pull out her chair.
And then… and then…
Nothing.
Last night is a blank space in the reels that are my memories.
I run more fingers through my hair, growing irritated with myself. Did I drink myself blind like some dumbfuck cazzo? Did I make a fool of myself in front of Portia and she walked out?
It’s as I lower my hands that I finally notice the bruises on my knuckles and blood under my nails.
I go still at the sight.
Where the fuck did this come from?
I get up and start toward the bathroom at a fast stride, stopping after only a few steps once I spot what’s at the foot of the bed.
Peering up at me is the devil mask, its cold and furious expression stitched onto the leather. Its stare is almost taunting at a moment like this, when I’m so lost and thrown by its sudden appearance.
Normally, I’m calculated. I’m careful.
When I bring out Il Diavolo, it’s with discretion. He comes out, then he’s put away once no longer needed.
If I was conducting business last night, I would’ve made sure to put him back where he belongs. Stowed away in a drawer or in a closet or tucked at the bottom of my fucking suitcase. It’s not like me to leave him… lying around.
I snatch the mask off the bed and storm into the hotel suite’s large walk-in closet. He gets dropped inside my suitcase before I zip it back up and then move into the bathroom, flicking on the light.
My reflection is as troubling as everything else I’ve come across this morning.
First it was waking up so late. Then it was the mysterious glasses of wine. Then the blood on my hands and the devil mask.
Now it’s my reflection staring back at me, showing several severe scratch marks along my neck and jaw.
Defensive wounds. Almost as if whoever made them was… fighting back against me.
Slow dread rolls through me. I turn away from the mirror as dark thoughts fill my head at what possibly could’ve happened last night.
“There’s no way,” I mutter under my breath. “That’s not possible. I wouldn’t… I’d never…”
I go for my phone, picking it up and dialing Portia’s number.
“Portia,” I say once the line rings several times over and then sends me to voicemail.
“Portia, pick up the phone. It’s Rafael, calling to make sure you’re alright.
I… I…” My gaze falls to the blood on my hands, my heartbeat doubling in my chest. “Call me back. I just need to know you’re okay. That you got home safe last night.”
I call her two more times just to make sure she won’t answer. Then I fire off some texts.
Call me.
It’s important.
We need to talk about what happened last night.
But Portia never responds. She doesn’t return my calls and doesn’t answer my texts. I resort to the numerous means I have to monitor her, bringing up the GPS tracking app on my phone only to find there’s no location detected.
“What the fuck?” I say, staring at the screen. “How’s that fucking possible? No location? What do you mean no location?!”
My mind is reeling. It feels like I’m going crazy.
I’m in some sort of hellish nightmare where nothing’s as it should be.
Normally composed and put together, it’s a form of torture I’ve rarely experienced. I don’t know whether to rage and come undone or keep calm and be methodical.
I resort to bringing up the apps for the security cameras. The ones I’ve had placed inside her apartment that I only look at a few times a week for privacy reasons, but those don’t assuage me like I hoped either.
Portia’s not home. The place is empty and silent.
Untouched.
It’s as if she never returned home last night as far as I can tell.
Real, genuine dread settles deep inside me. I resort to calling Joe at the news station. It’s a Friday. It’s possible Portia went into work…
“Germanotta,” Joe says upon answering his desk phone.
“Where’s Portia?” I ask without preamble, my tone curt. “Did she show up for work today? I need to speak with her. It’s urgent.”
“Didn’t you hear?” he asks. “She called in sick yesterday. Apparently, she had the flu. I haven’t heard from her today, but assumed she wasn’t over it?—”
“If she calls you or reaches out in any way, you let me know,” I cut him off. “I mean it, Joe. Tell me immediately. I need to talk to her.”
“Okay, okay, Rafael… geez… alright. You don’t have to go being intense all the time. You know we’re good pals, aren’t we? I got the message the first time after our talk the other night. You can count on?—”
I hang up on him before he can ever finish the sentence.
There’s no fucking time to waste. Every second is of the essence, and I’ve got to figure out what the hell is going on.
I dial Adagio all the way back in Newport next, just as short and impatient with him.
“Reach out to Jayla,” I say as soon as he answers. “Get her to contact Portia. If there’s anybody Portia will respond to, it’s her sister.”
“Something the matter?” he asks. “Do I need to know any backstory?”
“No backstory,” I growl impatiently. “Just fucking do it. Make her call her. Make her get hold of her and then get back to me. I need to know she’s alright. This is urgent. Do it now.”
The instant we’re off the phone, I’m calling Maurizio up. He’s come with me to DC, my main enforcer for the trip along with a handful of other men serving as security. He’s already alert upon answering, asking if we’re finishing what we started.
My brow furrows. “What do you mean finishing what we started, stronzo?” I snap. “What did we start? Be specific! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
He pauses half a second as if confused by the question, then says, “You called me last night saying there would be a body to dispose of.”
His words smack into me like a Mack truck. The air leaves my body as I go still and try to process what he’s said.
“What body?” I ask. “When the fuck did I say that?”
“Last night.”
“ When last night?!”
“Rafael...” Maurizio trails off. His tone says everything. It’s as if he’s asking a question without really asking it; as if he’s wondering if I’m being serious.
Or if this is some kind of joke. How could I forget our conversation?
But I have.
I have no recollection of it. I have no recollection of anything that happened after Portia walked through the glass doors of Sullivans and I rose from my seat to meet her…
A cold sweat breaks onto my skin as I start pacing the hotel suite, running fingers through my dark, unruly hair.
“Tell me word for word what I said. Tell me when I said it,” I request in a quiet tone. “I need to know it all.”
“You called after three in the morning. It would be on your call log. You told me you had an important stop to make and there would be a body to dump. Then you told me to standby for your call. But you never called back. Are you ready now? For the body?”
“There is no body!” I bark at him, exploding in frustration.
I’m taking it out on him and the others like Adagio and Germanotta, but it’s because I’m so fucking confused. I’m so lost as to what’s going on.
This has to be some kind of twisted alternate reality…
“Listen carefully,” I say after a few seconds.
“I need you and everybody else to search the city for Portia. Start with her apartment. Look for any clues. Then track her down at her usual haunts… her favorite coffee shop… the grocery store she goes to… her favorite fucking nail salon… all of it! Search everywhere for her! And get back to me once you’ve found her. ”
“She’s missing?” Maurizio asks.
“I… I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “We had dinner last night, and now she’s not answering my calls. The tracker’s not working, and she’s not at work either. Just search for her and let me know as soon as you find her.”
We’ve barely hung up before I’m in the closet, yanking on a pair of pants and henley shirt. My pulse hasn’t slowed, it’s only picked up the pace. I’m on edge in every sense of the word, keyed up as I stride over to the table where the bottle of wine sits along with the two near-empty glasses.
I pick up the one that must’ve been Portia’s. The lipstick on the rim matches the same red shade she wore last night.
That’s one thing I can vividly remember. Which means she was in my hotel suite at some point. Which also means she must’ve left if she was here.
Did we have some kind of fight? Did I take her home? Could something have happened on our way there and that’s why I brought out the mask?