12. Portia
PORTIA
Of all the scenarios I imagined, this was never one of them. I never imagined I would find myself face-to-face with Il Diavolo like this. Not so suddenly, and not in an international airport, an environment that’s supposed to be secure and safe.
What the hell could possibly be going on?
Is Il Diavolo and the Belluccis’ reach so far they can easily take over airport security?
As I stand opposite the man in a tailored suit and terrifying devil’s mask, it seems I have my answer.
But I refuse to show even an ounce of fear. I won’t let Il Diavolo or any of his minions intimidate me. Instead, I lift my chin in defiance and square my shoulders in perfect posture. My expression remains neutral, just like I learned in media training for conducting interviews.
You never reveal your emotions; you never let them bleed onto your face.
You stay professional and poised at all times.
I’ve clearly underestimated Il Diavolo’s reach in Sicily, but he’s sure as hell underestimated me in many regards too.
Silence weighs heavily on the room, an oppressive force that becomes an undeniable third presence. He seems to be waiting on a reaction from me, so I decide to give him the opposite of what I gave airport security, asking a pointed question.
“What’s the play here? Interrogation? Seduction? Or just plain old kidnapping?” I ask.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s smirking behind that devil’s mask. “Depends how cooperative you are—and what sort of mood I’m in. I’ve heard you’ve been causing some trouble.”
“Is that so? And who told you that?”
“We’ll call them a few reliable sources.”
“Francesca? Natalia?” I rattle off coolly, folding my arms. “I must say, it is endearing you’ve kept in touch all these years.”
His head tilts partially to the side as though he’s trying to figure out what angle I’m playing. It makes me laugh despite myself.
“You don’t think I haven’t put two and two together by now, right?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to speak more clearly.”
“I know it’s you. It’s been you this entire time,” I say, an accusatory note cracking through my otherwise even tone.
“I don’t know what kind of sorcery you pulled off the night in the warehouse, but you’ve been Il Diavolo all along, and you’ve been keeping it from me.
This has all been some sick and twisted game you’ve been playing, but guess what?
I’ve figured you out, Rafael. I know exactly who—and what—you are, and if you think you’ll get away with any of this, you’re mistaken. I’m not going to let that happen.”
The threat I’ve issued hangs in the air for seconds to come.
Il Diavolo—or Rafael, or whatever alias he goes by—takes his time replying. He merely admires me from behind his devil’s mask, his dark and piercing eyes unreadable.
I haven’t the faintest clue what he’s thinking. If he’ll lash out at me or brush off what I’ve said.
Clearly, he finds me a threat in some regard if he’s stopped me from leaving the country; he doesn’t want me out of his clutches because he knows how dangerous it could be if I go rogue. He needs me within his control.
That’s what it’s always been about for him.
He never cared about me. He never gave a damn about our relationship. It was all fake, and I was foolish enough to fall for it, believing I had finally found the right man for me.
It cuts so deep to even begin thinking about that… I can’t do it. I shut down those thoughts right away, deciding it’ll have to wait for another time.
After a minute passes and silence stretches on between us, it seems I’ve struck a nerve. What I’ve said has really pissed him off.
This is confirmed when the first word out of his mouth is a command spoken to the two airport personnel.
“Uscire.”
The two men make themselves disappear. They practically climb over each other to make it through the door, slamming it shut behind themselves.
The sharp sound makes me jump.
Il Diavolo takes a few steps toward me, closing most of the space between us. I’ve appreciated the buffer, which is what makes the sudden closeness so immediately tense and uncomfortable. In response, I take a step back, my pulse fluttering faster.
We’re alone now. Just the two of us locked in this room that feels strangely intimate.
He’s looking me in the eye. He won’t turn away.
I find I can’t either. I’m locked into this staring contest with the devil, a strange sense of anticipation crashing over me.
It’s like I’ve entered this silent battle of wills without realizing I have, and now I’m trapped.
But one thing is clear—Il Diavolo possesses the same kind of intense, dominating energy as Rafael. If by some chance he is a different man, there’s a reason he has the reputation he does.
All reasons he evokes certain reactions out of me against my will.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat and the tremor in my stomach and stand my ground.
He studies every feature, every detail of my face, letting the seconds tick by in unnerving fashion.
The tension builds until I begin to question if this moment will ever end, and then…
He laughs.
A rich, dark sound breaks the silence as he releases a short, contained laugh. I watch him, unsure what to make of his reaction, just as on guard as ever.
He sticks both hands in his pants pockets and says, “Portia, you can make all the threats you like. But the truth is, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no idea about anything. Soon you will come to realize that.”
I have no time to ponder what he means.
The door behind him swings open in the next second and two strapping men in crisp suits enter. Immediately, I know who they work for and why they’re here. They move in lockstep across the room as Il Diavolo gives direction in Italian.
“Accompagnala alla macchina. Il viaggio è lungo.”
“I’m not going anywhere without my purse,” I spit, digging my heels into the ground.
The men grab me from either side to guide me toward the door they just came through.
“We have gathered your things,” Il Diavolo says, switching back to English seamlessly. “Including the carry-on luggage you had at the hotel.”
He sounds amused about the last part.
“Don’t touch me!” I snap, wrenching my arm free. “I have working legs! I can walk on my own.”
The man on my left defers to Il Diavolo with a glance.
Il Diavolo gives a sigh. “Lasciala camminare.”
Both men refrain from touching me, merely walking at my side. We leave the interrogation room behind, moving through several corridors that seem to be for airport personnel only.
On the outside I’m calm, but on the inside, I’m in a state of panic.
I’m being escorted by a powerful mafia boss and his men to who knows where.
I’m alone in a foreign country, where no one knows where I am, only my sister, who I explicitly told to forgo contacting me.
All because I was obsessed with uncovering the truth.
It seems so damn reckless and stupid in hindsight.
Of course, I always knew it was a risk—that’s part of being an investigative reporter. You’re willing to go deep, dive into situations that most people would be unwilling to go, sometimes having to put yourself at risk.
But I hadn’t realized it would happen like this.
For all I know, I could be living my final hours. Il Diavolo could be escorting me to my death…
We come out a private exit in an employee parking lot of the airport. A limousine is already waiting for us, the door propped open for me to slide inside.
I pause for only half a second before realizing it’s fruitless. I’m going one way or another. If I try to resist, Il Diavolo and his men will simply force me.
My stomach sinks with dread as we pull away from the airport.
His men sit up front. We’re alone in the back of the limousine. Though there’s ample space for seating, it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough given the situation.
I need an entire football field between us in order to feel comfortable.
I can’t even look in his direction, keeping my head turned the opposite way. But he seems to feel differently, his gaze set on me from behind his devil’s mask.
We ride in silence with only the sounds of gravel being crushed under the wheels and the chaotic beat of my heart against my chest.
My palms are clammy in my lap as the act I’ve put on starts to slip. I’m really being kidnapped. I’m being taken captive by the mafia.
The man I thought I was falling in love with. Different potential strategies flit through my head. Things like maybe seducing him or sweet talking him somehow.
It couldn’t have all been an act, right?
Some part of him had to have cared about me. He was attracted to me.
I could use these things to my advantage…
The limousine winds along narrow mountain roads. Sicily unspools around us in vivid fashion—jagged hills with sun-dried brush and crumbling stone. The landscape is golden and bruised but rolls out toward the glimmering sea that never seems to end.
Every so often we pass a small village that seems to have been forgotten over time. The homes remind me of the ones I’d come across in Ragusa when I talked to Natalia with red tiles on the roofs and laundry strung up outside. Children play freely and goats roam untethered.
More so than I can in this moment.
I heave a heavy sigh watching them.
Il Diavolo watches me do so. “It was always going to come to this,” he says cryptically. The first words he’s spoken since the airport. “The sooner you accept that, the easier you will adjust, Portia.”
My teeth grind together, barely keeping me from telling him what I really want to.
Fuck off.
The limousine turns around a sharp bend in the road, tires crunching over gravel, and then there it is…
The Bellucci villa rises into view above the rolling groves. Its ocher walls catch the waning sunlight like fire-kissed stone, and the terracotta roof sprawls across multiple floor levels with an architectural grace. Cypress trees and hedges line the property on either side.
At the front is a circle driveway with a large stone fountain in the shape of two angels.
The entire property is walled in and protected.
The limousine brakes at the entrance until we’re waved through and pull up to the house. The driver’s door springs open along with the front passenger’s as the men get out to do the same for their boss.
I tear my gaze away from the window and snap my eyes shut. I can’t even bring myself to move from my seat, much less breathe.
This is it; this is what I’ve been dreading from the moment Il Diavolo showed up and we left the airport.
I’m officially his captive and there’ll be no escape.
The rear doors open and Il Diavolo slides out. Now my turn, I let out the shuddery breath I’ve been holding in.
This place might be known as the Bellucci estate. The place where they lay their head at night and they call home.
But it’s what I call my prison, and I’m already trapped inside the gates.