9. Portia
PORTIA
It’s hard work making yourself disappear. Even harder when you’re the object of obsession for a man like Rafael Calderone and you have to make yourself poof into thin air.
I’d known for a while that Rafael had been watching me—and not just watching me but monitoring my every move.
He had eyes and ears everywhere, including in DC.
His reach is so far and wide I’m almost certain my boss, Joe Germanotta, isn’t just mafia affiliated.
He’s in the back pocket of Rafael Calderone himself.
The final straw was the Dominion Gala. Being belittled by Chuck Whitmore only for Rafael to magically swoop in and “save the day” like the knight in shining armor he so often loved presenting himself as.
He claimed he was invited to the gala for business purposes, and that might’ve been the case.
But it didn’t change the fact that everything regarding Rafael was a little too coincidental for my tastes.
Whitmore and Germanotta thought they could silence me and make me play along like a good girl, and Rafael thought he could charm his way back into my good graces.
They were all wrong.
I decided I was going to show them how wrong they were.
I arrive in Sicily with a small carry-on bag and nothing else to my name. The rest of my life has been abandoned in the States.
A surreal feeling washes over me. It’s the first time I’ve been in Sicily since the free vacation I went on with Jayla. I had no idea how my life would change forever. I never imagined I’d return two years later seeking answers about the man I thought I was falling in love with…
Taxis line the curb outside the airport, waiting to transport passengers anywhere in Sicily. A tubby man vaguely reminiscent of Fero waves me over as soon as he notices me.
“Dove, bella?”
My cheeks warm at his complimentary tone. “Can you… um, take me here? In Ragusa?”
I fumble with my phone to show him the address of the small boutique hotel where I’ll be staying. He nods his head fervently, then takes my carry-on suitcase to load it into the trunk.
“Viaggiare da solo?” he asks, peering at me in the rearview mirror. He seems to remember a second later I don’t speak Italian, because he switches to English. “Traveling alone?”
“Actually, no,” I fib, smiling politely. “I’m here with friends.”
“Aha!” he chuckles. “Girl’s trip!”
I laugh, the sound just as polite as my smile. “Something like that.”
As far as I’m concerned, no one needs to know why I’m in Sicily. I haven’t even told Jayla yet… or really decided if I will.
It could be too risky. Rafael’s probably realized I’m missing by now.
We spent the night together, and honestly? It was one of the best nights we’d ever had together. It was tense and tinged by hurt feelings from our breakup. But one thing became clear to me as the night wore on: we still cared about each other.
Rafael’s infatuation was rooted in the deep affection he had for me. My feelings for him hadn’t really gone anywhere either; I had to consciously fight myself all night long, reminding myself I had to do what I had to do.
No matter how I feel about him, I have to know the truth. What happens once I do, I’m not even sure…
Allison Sigler provided the match I needed to light the fire. I left the botanical gardens aware of where I needed to go. The items belonging to her uncle all traced back to Sicily, which happened to be where Rafael Calderone was born.
It also happened to be where the Bellucci family originated from.
I’m still undecided whether I think Rafael is simply affiliated with the mafia family or if it’s so much worse. If he could possibly be…
“Here you are, bella,” says the cab driver. He slowly brakes outside a modest little crumbly building with a clothesline dangling outside the second story window. “This is you.”
He meets me at the back, hoisting my carry-on bag out of the trunk. I turn toward the little hotel where I’ll be laying my head down for the next few nights as I investigate Rafael and the Belluccis.
The photos on the booking website might need to be updated.
They seem like they were taken ten or fifteen years ago.
The squat building appears less like a hotel and more like a private residence with the clothes hanging out to dry and the house slippers left out front.
I roll my suitcase alongside me as I reach for the brass handle and tug the tall, heavy door open.
I’m barely halfway through the doorway when I’m accosted by a small, round woman more than a head shorter than me.
“Eccoti qui. Ti stavo aspettando. Ho già preparato la tua stanza. Vieni con me e te la mostro.”
She takes my hand like we’re familiar with each other and then begins leading me through the cramped front desk area of the small hotel.
A shaggy dog with his tongue out rushes toward us, curious and eager for attention from what he perceives as a potential new playmate.
Before I can even think to pet him, the woman is swatting him away.
“No Luca! Scappa!” she scolds.
I’m led upstairs to a cramped hallway with two doors on either side.
She opens the second door on the left and ushers me inside.
The room is about as compact as the rest of the place, though it’s clean and neat and the bed is made up.
The window overlooks the street, noises from the nearby promenade trickling in.
“Parli Italiano?” she asks.
I shake my head. “English only. Sorry.”
The woman clicks her tongue in open judgment, folding her arms over her ample bosom. “I’m Irene, your host. I live across from here,” she says in a heavy accent. “You are Portia?”
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you.”
“You stay for how long?”
“Um, probably the entire week,” I answer.
She grunts, beady hazel eyes scanning me up and down. “The bathroom is next to you. Everyone shares.”
“I read that on the website. Thanks for the reminder.”
“Dinner is at seven.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll get my own food?—”
“All guests eat here,” she interrupts sternly. “It is a courtesy. I cook the meals for everyone. Free of charge.”
Not wanting to offend her, I simply pop on the same polite smile I wore in the taxi. “Alright, thanks. But I have a few errands to run before then.”
“Errands?” Irene asks, lifting a nosy brow. “You are in Ragusa for… what?”
“Oh, errands. They’re…” I pause in search of a word. “Just tasks to do. Some sightseeing.”
“Sightseeing? In Ragusa?” She grunts again, this time as if I’ve told a joke. She reminds me about dinner one more time before she finally leaves me alone, snapping shut the door.
For the next half hour, I settle in as much as I can given the circumstances. I unpack some of my suitcase, setting out my toiletry bag and other possessions I’ll frequently use while I’m here for the next few days.
The truth is, I’m not even sure how long I’ll be here. It depends on what I find in Ragusa.
It’s Rafael’s hometown, the place where he said he became a self-made man. He said he grew up dirt poor here…
I check both ways before I creep from my room and make it downstairs and then outside. Irene seems distracted by the shaggy dog, who she’s bathing in another room, the door cracked ajar.
Once outside in the Sicilian sunlight, I decide to stay on foot. I’ve got sunglasses, a ball cap, and a curly auburn wig to disguise myself as much as possible.
Just more steps I’ve taken to ensure I’m discreet.
It was the same sneaking out of the Echelon Hotel. Rafael was fast asleep when I slunk out of his suite and then made it downstairs. I bribed the hotel clerk to erase the camera footage of me leaving the premises and begged him to uphold my secrecy. As far as I know, he’s kept his promise.
I find a stone bench outside some shops and use my burner phone to dial Jayla. The second she answers, I’m telling her to be quiet and listen.
“It’s me,” I say in a hushed tone. “You’re going to hear a lot of weird shit if you haven’t already. Just know I’m okay.”
“What the hell is going on?—”
“I said just listen,” I snap, interrupting her. “I had to make myself disappear. I’m doing some digging into… him. I need to know what’s going on and this was the only way.”
Jayla sucks in a sharp breath and I can just hear the outburst she’s bottling up.
“You have to play along. Pretend you’re worried sick. That you know nothing. But don’t involve Mom and Dad. Keep them out of this. Okay?”
“But… what… I don’t get what you’re…”
“There’s a lot going on,” I say cryptically. “Let’s just say I’ve been sent in a new direction. I’ll tell you more when I can. Love you.”
“Sissy, now wait a damn second?—”
I hang up, drawing a deep breath to steady myself. As much as I want to tell Jayla everything, I can’t risk it right now. It’ll not only potentially blow up what I’m doing, but it could put her in danger. Even now, even as I get ready to investigate Rafael, my gut tells me he wouldn’t hurt me.
…even if he did find out I was doing this.
But I can’t say the same about the Belluccis. About Il Diavolo, whoever he may be.
My stomach pits as doubtful thoughts fill my head about his identity. Part of me almost wonders if I’m so desperate to uncover the truth because I want to prove Rafael’s innocence to myself. I want to prove to myself that he’s not him.
He can’t possibly be; I can’t possibly have fallen in love with… there’s no way…
All thoughts about our relationship are pushed to the side.
I head to one of the ‘errands’ I had mentioned to Irene: the State Archives of Ragusa.
The building is old and made of limestone like most of the architecture throughout the hilltop city. It sits at a steep incline that makes my legs burn as I climb the winding walkway that leads toward the building’s double door entrance.
The place smells of paper and dust, filled with rows upon rows of shelves, all presumably housing records.
It’s not easy communicating with the clerk at the desk, a bespectacled brunette who seems to be around my age.
She speaks no English and I know no Italian.
We get by using our phones for translation, figuring out what the other is trying to say.
She pops to her feet as soon as she realizes what I’m asking of her and rushes off to show me where the info is located.
“Grazie.”
I take a look at the birth record for Rafael Calderone, born to a woman by the name of Verona. Their address is listed on the document. I snap a photo of the piece of paper as well as copy the exact address down on my GPS app, determined to get to the bottom of this while I’m in Sicily.
The next day, I snag a taxi, showing the driver the address to Rafael’s childhood home.
It’s a long shot that any of his family still lives there, but it can’t hurt to scope out the area. It’s possible someone in one of the neighboring houses might remember him and can provide more intel.
The cab drives me across the hillside village to a neighborhood of tiny villas. Children of all ages play outside, chasing each other up and down an open field of tall grass, their laughter like a melody in the late afternoon.
I hesitate a second, then start toward the cluster of homes.
Rafael and his family lived in number thirteen, but as I approach the villa it seems either no one’s home or it’s currently vacant.
Probably the latter judging by the curtainless windows and lack of decoration.
The other homes have some kind of character about them—a doormat or some wind chimes. Toys discarded out front.
But the thirteenth villa looks barren and cold.
“Looking for someone?” asks a woman from behind.
I whip around to face her, my pulse racing faster, though I force myself to keep calm. “Actually, yes. Maybe you can help me. I was… um, I was looking for the home that used to belong to the Calderones. Is this the correct one?”
The woman studies me a moment, her tangle of dark curls blowing in the wind as she folds her arms and then says, “Yes, this home was theirs.”
“Can I ask how you would know?”
The corner of her lip curls. “Rafael and I went to school together. He was my boyfriend.”