8. Rafael
RAFAEL
Joseph has never known adversity until he’s chained up in my cell and forced to look into the masked face of the devil.
The funny thing is, my existence has been the opposite.
I knew nothing but struggle from the moment I was brought into this world.
I wasn’t born into a life of privilege like Joseph, son to a rich and powerful crime boss father.
My father was some slovenly loser who couldn’t even stick around for me and my mother.
He left us to struggle in abject poverty until my mother passed away and I resorted to petty crime.
So when I peer into the flushed, blubbering face of a kid like Joseph, I feel nothing.
No sympathy. No compassion. Not an ounce of understanding.
I look at him and am reminded how he’s had a silver spoon in his mouth his whole life while I had to work for everything I’ve ever had, and yet we’ve somehow wound up in the same circles. As if that weren’t proof enough how unfair life is.
But for once Joseph is going to find out for himself. He’s going to learn that while his life comes with privileges, being the son of a mafia don has a hell of a lot of downsides too.
“Il Diavolo,” he croaks. “If this is about my father?—”
“You speak when you’re spoken to. I have no interest in listening to your pleading or any sob stories.
I don’t want to hear about how you’re not involved in your father’s business,” I explain matter-of-factly, pacing in front of him.
The cell is dark and silent, every footstep echoing.
“Consider this payment for the sins of your father. Your side has taken something valuable from me, so I have reacted in kind. If you wish to go free, you’ll have to depend on him. ”
He makes a throaty sound of protest, though he otherwise stays silent.
“We’re going to record a video,” I say. “You’re going to cooperate and read the script in front of you. And if Daddy listens, then maybe you’ll go free with all your parts intact.”
That seems to drain the last of what color remains in Joseph’s complexion. He goes pale as my men set up the camera equipment and hold up a ring light over his head. The cue cards are laid out in front of him to read from.
I stand off to the side, arms folded behind my back.
The camera starts recording, and Joseph hesitates for an uncertain second before he gives in and starts reading from the script in a wooden tone.
“The time is 7:34 in the morning on February 22nd. My name is Joseph Tuco, the son of Titus Tuco. Last night I was taken by Il Diavolo and will remain in his custody until Portia James is returned safe and unharmed,” he recites.
“Thus far, I have not been harmed myself, but that will no longer be the case if Il Diavolo’s demands are not met within the next twenty-four hours. ”
He stops in the middle of reading to glance off camera in my direction.
And I thought he couldn’t get any paler. He turns a chalky ghost white, gulping down some air and then turning back toward the camera.
This kid is no mafia heir.
If he is, Tuco is even more foolish than I thought. Joseph’s soft and cowardly, not at all cut out to withstand the barbarity of our lifestyle.
But that’s not my problem. He’s the bargaining chip I’m using. He’s the currency I have to get Portia back, and I’ll use him in whatever manner is necessary.
“If… if she’s not returned in the next twenty-four hours,” he continues, reading from the cue cards.
“Then prepare for me to lose some f-fingers… among other p-p-parts. And just to show this is serious, you now have twenty-three hours.” He breaks into a sudden sob, bowing his head and finally going off script.
“Please don’t do this! Please I’ve got nothing to do with it! Don’t take my fingers. I need those!”
I motion to one of my men to cut the camera. We’ve gotten the footage we need. Within the hour it’ll be sent off to Titus and he’ll make his choice. Either he’ll return Portia, or I’ll be taking things out on this pathetic, weeping mess he calls a son.
“Stop crying,” I command. “I said shut the fuck up.”
My fist clenches his hair as I wrench his head up and produce a switchblade I press against his throat. He goes still at once, tears leaking down the sides of his face as he peers up at me.
“What the fuck you crying for?” I growl at him. “Do you think I’ll feel sorry for you? What is there to feel sorry for? Your fate is in your father’s hands… or would you rather I slit your throat right now, maledetto codardo?”
Joseph can’t hold his whimpers in as I press the blade more firmly against his throat.
The blade sinks into his skin, beads of blood bubbling to the surface.
If I keep going, I’ll cut straight through.
I’ll slice his throat open, and then Titus won’t even have twenty-three hours to return Portia. His son will already be dead.
But will it even matter? I can kill him right now and it’ll make no difference?—
“I’m glad we could come to an agreement, Mr. Calderone,” says Archibald Warner, grinning wide.
I blink, going from the dark, dimly lit space of the cell where I’m keeping Joseph Tuco to the middle of a boardroom crowded with executives in business suits.
It’s the middle of the day, all eyes on me as the liver-spotted mogul speaks.
Joseph Tuco is gone. So is the blade I’d been pressing into his throat. My pulse is pumping fast in my veins as seconds go by where I sit and stare at the others in the boardroom and process what the fuck is going on.
I look down and find bloodspots on the cuff of my dress shirt. How the hell did those get there?
The state of confusion feels like déjà vu. It’s a lot like the morning I’d woken up at the Echelon Hotel and first discovered Portia was missing.
A whole chunk of the night is still a mystery.
Now another piece of time has disappeared, and I’ve gone from standing in the cell with Joseph Tuco to sitting in this boardroom in the blink of an eye.
When so many seconds go by that my lack of response becomes awkward, one of my assistants jumps in and saves me. They announce to the boardroom the meeting is adjourned, thanking everyone for their attendance.
I remain where I am as the room empties. Only Archibald Warner approaches, eyeing me with the same toothy grin. Many compare him to the crypt keeper, liver spots freckling his pruned skin.
“I trust everything’s alright, Rafael?” he says. “Our business arrangement is still good to go?”
“Business arrangement,” I repeat slowly.
He raises a thick silver brow. “Yes, regarding the shipments. My company was providing the transport for your… ahem, product .”
“Right. Of course, everything’s still in place. The deal is on.”
“Excellent, I was worried there for a moment. You seemed out of it this morning. We all have those days, I suppose.” He shakes his head and titters to himself as he turns and walks out of the room.
Finally alone, I scrub a hand over my face and breathe through the disorientation.
It’s possible I’ve been so exhausted I checked out of it this morning.
I’m pretty sure I got little to no sleep last night, going from the meeting with Dario Cortese to more arrangements for the family and then visiting Joseph Tuco down in the cell.
I must’ve gone straight into my day as businessman Rafael Calderone with no real break in between.
Sleep has often eluded me. Most nights I only get three or four hours. I’m awake before the sun. But ever since Portia’s disappearance, it’s been even worse. I’ve been getting even less sleep than usual, if not skipping it altogether.
Clearly, it’s having an effect on my mental state.
“There you are!”
“I told you you’re not allowed in here!”
“The hell I’m not!”
Jayla’s appeared in the doorway, jerking her arm out of the grasp of one my assistants.
I can’t even remember her name; she’s the latest in a long line of easily interchangeable administrative assistants we’ve hired at my investment company.
She’s no match for Jayla as she tries and fails to hold her back.
Portia’s sister refuses, storming into the empty boardroom with that no-nonsense attitude they seem to share.
I rise to my feet to greet her, motioning to the admin assistant to leave us be. It’s not every day Jayla turns up at my company. There can only be one reason why she would, and it’s understandable she’d be driven to this point given what’s happened.
“Jayla, I wasn’t expecting you. Apologies if you were given any trouble at the door.”
“Save your bullshit apologies—where’s my sister?!”
“Have you spoken to Adagio?”
“I’ve spoken to him! He told me you swore it would be handled by now. Where is she, Rafael? What’s going on?” Jayla demands loudly. “Has she been taken by one of these mafia jackasses again? What are you doing to get her back?”
“I’m doing everything I can to bring her home. You need to be patient.”
“Patient? How can I be patient when anything could be happening to my sister? She could be seriously hurt… or worse!”
“I will get her back,” I growl, meeting her eyes. “You just need to give me a couple more days. We’re closing in on a lead.”
“And what am I supposed to tell our parents? They’re starting to ask questions. They’ve never gone this long without talking to her.”
“Stall a little while longer. She will be home soon. You’re going to have to trust me.”
Jayla scoffs, folding her arms. “That’s just it, Rafael. I don’t trust you. And neither did Portia. I’ve got no proof. But it is your fault she’s missing. If something happens to her, you have her blood on your hands.”
My jaw hardens as Portia’s sister spins on her heel and strides out of the boardroom.
I’m left alone for the second time in minutes, except this time filled with even more tension than before.
Not only do I have to sort out these missing chunks of time that are becoming a problem, I’ve got to figure out what happened to mia dolcezza before it’s too late.