10. Rafael
RAFAEL
The banquet hall thrums with polite laughter and the clink of cocktail glasses. I’m only half listening, my mind on more important matters like my next move against the Tucos. The deadline I gave them if Titus still wants his son alive and breathing.
Where the fuck he could be holding Portia prisoner?
The only reason I even showed my face at this damn dinner was for business purposes. I couldn’t weasel my way out of yet another obligation or risk pissing off investors.
I sip from my glass of bourbon and check the time on my wristwatch. Another ten, fifteen minutes tops, and then I’m getting the fuck out of here.
“Mr. Calderone, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” says Baron Strong. He’s approaching with Portia’s former boss, Walter Finkle. Both men look unnatural in their suits and bowties, their press badges clipped to their chest.
I barely spare either a glance, my gaze at some point beyond their shoulders. “Why wouldn’t I be here? I own Metro News.”
“I’ve been watching Primetime DC,” says Baron, his tone accusatory. “Portia’s been absent for the past week.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” I snap.
Now he has my attention. He’s on the receiving end of my chilling glare, though he doesn’t back down. He raises his weak chin, his glasses slipping low down his pointy nose.
“I figured you might know what happened to her.”
I step closer to him, my grip tight on the glass of bourbon. “And why would you think that, Baron? Be very clear about what you’re asking.”
Doubt flickers in and out of his features, his pale and pointed face more punchable now than it’s ever been.
If we weren’t surrounded by dozens of others in the banquet hall giving canned laughter at each other’s stale jokes as they sip champagne and nibble on canapés, I probably would. I’d love nothing more than to?—
My phone’s vibrating on my nightstand.
I sputter for air as I fight my way out of the tangle of bedsheets. My head’s foggy and my heart’s pounding in my chest. I’ve got no idea what the hell is going on or how I ended up where I am as I snatch my phone and rasp, “ Hello ?!”
There’s a moment’s pause from the other end, and then comes Adagio, “You good, boss? We were supposed to leave half an hour ago.”
“Leave?” I snarl moodily. “Leave where? Am I supposed to know what you’re talking about?”
“You’re visiting the new warehouse today. The one in Grove.”
I rack my brain for when I possibly agreed to that and come up blank. I come up blank for a lot of stuff, like how I went from last night’s banquet celebrating Metro News’s first quarter to lying in bed late for my day.
“Give me a moment.” I hang up on him and then shout Mara’s name.
She scurries inside only seconds later.
“La prossima volta svegliami!” I yell at her. “Non mi fai dormire.”
Her brows knit in bemusement. “Ma mi hai detto di non svegliarti. Hai detto che volevi riposare.”
…I did?
When the fuck did I say that?
I can’t even bring myself to be mad at Mara anymore. Not that it’s ever easy—she’s been working for me for years and has always done good work.
But that doesn’t mean I’m any less frustrated by what’s going on. I leave Mara to make my bed and tidy up the rest of the room only to discover I’m not done with the surprises this morning.
The shirt I’d worn last night is soaking in the sink, the water tainted red from what appears to be blood .
I fish it out and hold it up to study it, more lost than ever.
It’s like the morning at the Echelon all over again. The other day in the boardroom, where I’d lost place and time and emerged in the middle of a meeting.
Each time confused. Each time with no recollection of what was going on.
A pattern seems to be emerging, and I’m not sure it’s one I like.
I drop the soaked-through shirt back to the sink, water splashing over the edges of the basin, and focus on getting cleaned up for the morning.
A hot shower and change of clothes later, I find a text I sent myself at two in the morning:
Find. Her.
Tension gathers in my muscles, making me go rigid. I press my thumb down on the screen and promptly delete the text as if it never existed.
I’ve been trying harder to get more sleep, though if you compared my sleep schedule to the average person it would still be laughable. Obviously, I’ve got to do better.
Portia’s disappearance is making me lose my mind.
Adagio is waiting downstairs in the town car. He’s uncharacteristically silent for the first few miles we ride through Newport.
“You sure you’re good with this tour, boss?” Adagio asks suddenly. “We could always postpone it another day.”
“Why wouldn’t I be good with it? If today is what we planned for, then today is what we’ll do.”
He falls silent again, though I can sense his discontent. Adagio’s more expressive than Maurizio ever could be, even when he’s not trying to be.
A scowl spreads onto my face. “Speak your mind, goombah. What is it? What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing just… you know…” He gives a shrug, turning his face toward the car window to watch the skyscrapers go by. “I’ve known you a long time, Rafael. Almost as long as anybody, right? You know, considering nobody really knows you from before. But I’ve just been noticing some… differences.”
“What sort of differences?”
I’m genuinely curious despite my short-tempered tone.
“You’re usually on top of things. Punctual. Strategic. Always a step ahead of everybody. And lately…”
I can’t even counter the criticism. He’s correct that lately I’ve been a mess. More than a mess, I’ve been forgetting things and spacing out for long periods of time. Being the prideful man I am, it’s difficult to admit.
I scratch at the scruff that’s supposed to be my beard, but it’s overgrown and not as trim as I usually keep it.
“You’re right. I’ve been off. It’s this thing with Portia’s disappearance,” I sigh. “We’re coming up on a week and we’re no closer to finding her.”
“Jayla says she can’t stall with the parents much longer. We need to decide how we’ll handle the situation if it gets out.”
My head throbs at the thought.
I haven’t even begun to think about how to handle what seems like the inevitable—the public discovering investigative journalist Portia James has gone missing.
She’s now known to a national audience. It’ll be news across the country, and given her track record reporting on organized crime, it’ll ignite a thousand different whodunnit theories…
“You hear about the dead body the DC police found?” Adagio asks.
My head snaps away from the window, my tone sharper. “What dead body?”
“It’s been all over the news—Chuck Whitmore was found dead. Authorities think his body was dumped into a landfill about a week ago. He was bludgeoned to death. He’s been missing since…”
“Since when? Spit it out.”
“The same night as Portia. It’s odd, isn’t it? Didn’t she work under him at ANC?”
Yes.
And he was the asshole who had upset her at the Dominion Gala.
I think back to the bloody shirt in my hotel room the morning after. Had I gone and murdered Whitmore without realizing it? But that still didn’t explain what happened to Portia, and she had been in the hotel room with me…
We arrive at the new warehouse where we’ll be housing some of our product. Some of my associates are waiting outside to greet us. They’re visibly anxious, casting nervous smiles and holding out shaky hands for a handshake.
“Show me the premises,” I say, my tone flat and bored.
We begin the tour of the facility, my mind immediately wandering. The tour guides prattle on and on about how the warehouse is big enough to store weeks’ worth of product and how it will be temperature controlled to ensure the Nectar will be preserved at all times, no matter the weather outside.
“We have security cameras that cover the entire floor,” he boasts, then shoots me another one of his nervous, toothy smiles. “And that obviously doesn’t even account for your men, which I’m sure will be on top of guarding the product as well.”
From the ground floor we head into another area that will serve as an armory for my men. This is in case there’s any trouble without warning. You can never be too safe when warring with another family.
The fidgety tour guide draws open the door and steps aside for me to walk through first. I step inside and find myself in the cell with Joseph Tuco.
He’s battered and bruised in his chair, leaking blood like a faucet. I’m standing over him, brass knuckles strapped to the back of my hand.
I’ve been beating the shit out of him. The boy’s in hysterics. He’s sobbing, begging for his mother.
Air heaves out of me from how exerted I am and how hard I’ve been swinging. I stumble half a step back and then turn away from him altogether, reaching up at my face. My palm slides over the familiar contours of the leather mask I’ve worn so many times before.
That I don’t even remember putting on.
I rip it off my face and toss it on the ground along with the pair of brass knuckles. Both hit the ground at the same time, the knuckles with a tinny sound.
I don’t know what to say or what to think anymore.
Except this feels like some fucked up experiment. Some joke being pulled on me that I’m not in on.
There’s an abrupt knock on the door and it flies open only half a second later. Maurizio strides inside holding a phone.
“Don Vito pretende di parlarti. Non accetterà un no come risposta.”
I swallow against the tightness in my throat, then snatch the phone out of Maurizio’s hands. “Don Vito, sono qui. Mi scuso per non averti chiamato ultimamente.”
“è una novità per te evitarmi? Ti comporti come un re.”
“So chi è il capo della famiglia. Non ho sempre fatto come mi hai chiesto? Non sto forse portando grandezza all’impero Bellucci?”
“Sì, ma tu porti il peso della maschera,” he wheezes. “è pesante e pochi uomini possono sopportarla. Ho sentito cose su di te.”
“I can handle it!” I snarl at him in sudden English. “Who else if not me, huh? Your nephew? Let’s not forget what a fucking failure he was!”
“Rafael—”
“NO!” I bark over him. “It’s time you show me some fucking respect.
I’m the best you have, and you and everybody else in this damn family knows it.
I’ve got millions flowing in, more than this family’s ever seen, thanks to my operation.
You are a bumbling, old, senile fool in failing health far past your prime, so out of touch you don’t know what the hell is going on.
So here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to stay the fuck out of my way.
Or I’ll show you just how fast the hand that feeds you starts slicing throats. ”
Don Vito meets my violent threat with lengthy silence. He gives me no other reaction than his wheezing breaths.
I know better than to think he’s surprised by the outburst.
It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve exploded like this. He’s known about my temper for as long as he’s known me.
“Hai finito?” he asks finally. “Oppure vorresti urlare ancora un po’?”
My teeth grind against each other as I clutch the cellphone to my ear and start pacing the cell. “Mi hai chiamato. Cosa vuoi, se non dirmi che non ce la faccio più?”
“Lei sta creando problemi e tu ti lasci accecare. E ti chiedi perché preferisco lui.”
“Why do you always speak in fucking riddles?” I snap again.
“Questo è un lavoro per lui. Non per te.”
Don Vito hangs up on me even more abruptly than he has in the past. I release a roar loud enough to reverberate through the room as I throw the phone at the wall and smash it into pieces.
It feels like nothing more than another blink of an eye amd I’m in my bathroom, fresh off a shower, wiping steam from the mirror and staring at the dark gaze of the man that looks back at me.
He has my face. He has every sharp, large, Sicilian feature of mine.
But yet there’s something… different about him.
His eyes are too black, too hollow. His lips twitch without permission, stretching into a menacing half-grin that feels like a taunt.
I lean closer, tension cording through me. My hand bunches into a fist. The urge rises inside me to smash it against the glass, just so I could wipe that grin off his fucking face.
But he only grins wider. He outright mocks me, daring me to do it.
It takes a deep level of restraint to resist. I back away from the mirror and then stalk out of the bathroom, expecting to enter my bedroom. Instead I’m walking into the hotel suite at the Echelon. The present falls away from me, splintering off for a moment from the past.
I’m planted back into that night, where Portia had disappeared. The room’s dark, the lights off, as her retreating form starts for the door on the other side.
It’s late. It can’t be any earlier than two, three in the morning. What the fuck is she doing slipping out of the room like this?
A second passes before the shock fades enough for me to call after her—or make an attempt to.
When I open my mouth to try, no sound comes out. It’s then I realize I’m wearing the mask. I’m letting her leave.
In some twisted way, it’s another form of control, even if she doesn’t realize it. And then, when seconds go by and the dark silence echoes in the room, I set into motion and stalk after her…
The moment disappears as quickly as it’d pulled me in. I blink and find myself back in my bedroom, still minutes off the hot shower I’d taken, a towel secured around my waist.
But I’m aware of what I have to do next.
“You didn’t get taken,” I say, stepping toward the closet. “You ran. And I let you go. I wanted you to. But the question is… why?”