13. Diavolo
DIAVOLO
For a family that conducts business in bloodshed, the Belluccis know how to set a beautiful table. We sit down to family dinner that night like old times.
The floor is polished to perfection. The wax drips on the brass candelabras as flames flicker bright. Floral centerpieces are strategically placed around the long dinner table along with the bone-white plates and crystal glasses the staff have put out for tonight’s meal.
Olivia wanders in first after I do, draped in a satin sage-green dress that almost looks like a bedsheet. She merely gives me a nod, her dirty blonde hair pinned up to highlight her sharp cheekbones. Her modeling days are now behind her, but it’s the only reason Anthony Junior married her.
He comes in next, shoulder to shoulder with his father. The men are mirror images of each other, except thirty years apart.
Anthony Senior takes his seat across from me at the table. He can barely stand to glance in my direction and must think I haven’t figured out why.
As if I don’t know he’s been in Don Vito’s ear for months telling him things. He’s been one of the biggest saboteurs trying to displace my operation in Newport.
Who needs enemies like Titus Tuco when you have them in your own family?
“You ever gonna take that thing off?” Anthony Junior asks, guffawing like an idiot. He juts his chin, gesturing to the mask.
I don’t answer him or dignify his question with any kind of response at all.
The grin he’s wearing slides off his face.
He realizes it’s best not to engage and turns to his wife to talk with her about something instead.
It’s for the best—I’m in no mood for bullshit. Even less than usual considering where I am.
I had to fly over five thousand miles because his obsession got out of control. As usual, I’ve been left to clean up after him.
This will be the last time.
The staff begins to serve tonight’s meal: plated antipasti of prosciutto and figs, bowls of caponata and pasta alla norma, and various slow-roasted meats like chicken and lamb.
Sofia ducks in almost unnoticed among them, her thick hair disheveled like she’s been up to no good. She’s another one he has a fondness for who I can’t stand. He views her like a little sister while I view her as nothing more than an inconvenient nuisance.
None of the people at this table have ever truly been in my corner. I came into this world alone, rose up the ranks on my own, and I’ll go out the same way.
Why should my reign be any different?
Don Vito is last to arrive. The doors open and he hobbles through, leaning heavily on his cane.
He lurches forward like a dying thing, taking only a few steps at a time before a coughing fit attacks him and forces him to stop.
He hacks into a handkerchief monogrammed with a golden B for the family name and then tucks it back into his pocket.
Everybody watches him as he sinks into his chair. They track him like a bunch of vultures waiting for the moment he falls for the last time, even his own daughter.
Yet I’m the only one honest enough to wear my intentions out in the open.
The mask tells everybody who I really am. It reveals I am not here under any sentimental illusion and don’t give a damn about forced social etiquette.
It won’t be long before I handle the situation I came here for, then I’ll return to the empire I’m building in Newport and soon seize the rest of the family too. But that will have to wait until after tonight and after I execute my plan.
Dinner begins with the clatter of silverware and exchange of tense looks across the table. No one dares speak at first as the staff moves between us, putting the final touches on our meal, pouring more wine or fulfilling a special request for extra parmesan.
I forgo the meal altogether for a glass of amaro averna, a dark and bittersweet liqueur served over ice.
Anthony Senior finally grows tired of the tense silence and decides to make conversation, a fork and steak knife in either hand as he chews on his seared tagliata.
“I heard about the new warehouse,” he says. “It seems like a better location than the old place. I’m sure it’ll make things run smoother.”
“The operation is already running smoothly.” I spare him no glance, taking a slow sip of my drink. “Unless you’ve found a problem that didn’t exist before.”
“You and I both know there’s always room for improvement.”
“You’re speaking from personal experience.
But for your operations only,” I say plainly.
“The fact of the matter is, Anthony, you ran things in Newport a few generations ago. Times have changed. My operation is the most successful one the family has ever seen. I have brought record profit. If anyone is qualified to speak of what is and isn’t running smoothly, it’s me. ”
Through the corner of my eye, I can see his large fists clench on the table. The vein in his temple throbs, his wide face reddening. It makes for a jarring contrast with his snow white beard.
But he falls short of thinking up a rebuttal.
So his son decides to fight his father’s battle for him. Anthony Junior wipes at his mouth with his dinner napkin and tosses it on the table, leaning back in his chair like he’s lounging at the VIP section of some club.
“At least when my father was running things, the Tucos weren’t raiding our shit.”
Olivia chokes on the wine she’s drinking, spilling some of the dark red liquid down the front of her satin dress. Sofia stiffens in her chair, her eyes going wide. Even Anthony Senior seems taken aback by his son’s brazenness, glancing over in his direction.
I turn my head slowly, letting my gaze settle on Anthony Junior with the kind of quiet, measured calculation that has made grown men piss themselves in back alleys. “I’ve seen men like you before. Loud mouths with empty heads that always have a lot to say. They never last long.”
He scoffs, his chest puffing up.
“I have a feeling you won’t either,” I finish.
Anthony Senior slams both fists on the table and makes the silverware jump. “Don’t you fucking threaten my son!” he barks, rising halfway out of his seat. “Pensi di gestire le cose dietro quella maschera ma ti sbagli!”
“Pa, I don’t need you to fight my battles,” his son mumbles. He pushes his chair back as if to stop his father from lunging at me. “I can handle my own.”
“Sit down!” Olivia shrieks. “You’re both acting like animals!”
Sofia’s in tears, ever the distressed mafia princess. She wipes away at her face with a dinner napkin and pulls out her phone, presumably to text her latest boyfriend.
And then there’s Don Vito—he watches from the head of the table until another coughing fit takes over and his whole frame shudders. He grapples for his handkerchief, wheezing into the satin cloth like he can hardly breathe. He sounds so weak, like he’s barely hanging on.
I remain where I am, glass in hand. The family implodes around me, supposedly so powerful yet they don’t even realize how they’ve given up control.
I’m already in the driver’s seat.
None of them see it. He doesn’t it, though he will soon.
I push my chair back and remove myself from the room. The clamor hushes as quickly as it began. Everybody at the table freezes as they notice I’m on my way out, though they don’t dare stop me.
The truth is, no one can. It’s already too late.
“She refuses to eat,” says Daniela, frowning. “We have tried everything. Earlier she shoved the tray out of my hands. Everything spilled to the ground.”
“It’s not optional,” I say simply. “She will eat the food that is served to her.”
“How? How will I make her?”
The maid throws her arms in the air, already at her wits’ end after only a few hours. We’re standing in the hallway on the second floor. I’ve just left the disaster that was family dinner behind and come upstairs to check on how Portia is faring with the staff.
It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since she’s been at the Bellucci villa, and she’s already driven the staff insane.
She’s been locked away in one of the many guest bedrooms. The room has been secured in such a way to ensure escape is impossible, welded bars on the windows and extra locks installed on the doors, but otherwise the accommodations are nicer than most people would experience even at an expensive hotel.
None of that matters to Portia.
She has been stubborn and petulant every step of the way.
I’m told she has refused to eat anything she’s been served. She’s screamed at the staff and demanded to be released.
All behaviors that are unacceptable.
I sigh, my gaze shifting to the dark walnut door that belongs to Portia’s room.
“I’ll make sure she understands how things will be,” I say.
Daniela bows in gratitude and excuses herself to return to her other duties.
I use my ring of keys to let myself into Portia’s room, the lock disengaging with a heavy click.
The soft amber hue of early evening baths the room, the sheer curtains billowing faintly in the breeze.
Heavy wooden furniture anchors the space—an ornate armoire carved with twisting vines and mythic beasts, a high four-poster bed dressed in layers of ivory linen and cream-stitched damask, and a sleek writing desk with clawed feet and a vase of flowers.
Tasteful, elegant Sicilian furnishings and decor.
It’s a contrast to the cold, hostile energy coming from the woman by the window.
Portia stands with one arm braced against the sill, her back partially to me, as though she’s spent the last hour staring at the olive groves and the darkening sky. When the door clicks shut behind me, her head snaps up. Her spine stiffens like she’s been struck by a bolt of electricity.
She’s still in the same clothes from earlier—cropped jeans that cling to her body, a gauzy white blouse rumpled and slightly sheer in the light, the curve of her shoulders visible.
Her sandals are scuffed. Her bun messy and half undone, bangs and loose tendrils framing her oval face.
She looks like she’s been through the ringer today.
Yet she’s still beautiful in a defiant sort of way. He would agree with me.
I twist the lock behind me. The metallic snick of it turning cuts through the quiet like a warning shot.
She turns fully, facing me with narrowed eyes.
I let the silence settle, let it stretch between us like a wire drawn taut.
It presses down on the room, heightening the tension that already lingers from earlier at the airport.
She does her best to act unaffected, but I see small telltale signs—the tremor in her slender throat, the slight way her nostrils flare, how she curls her fingers into fists as if she believes it’ll make her seem tough.
It’s almost sort of… cute .
It almost sort of makes me understand what he sees in her.
But any similarities end there—I’m not so foolish as to sacrifice myself or my aspirations like he would or almost has.
No woman, no anything is worth such devotion. Nothing is more important than victory.
“My staff will bring you a change of clothes,” I say finally, my tone measured. “Something more comfortable for the evening.”
She folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“I don’t believe that was optional. They will bring you a change of clothes and you will put them on. You have a bathroom you will use to shower—or bathe in if you prefer baths—and the change of clothes will be waiting for you.”
“I want to go.”
“That’s not possible.”
She scowls. “Give me my phone.”
“That’s not possible either.”
“You can’t keep me here like this!”
I slide my hands into my pockets and stroll deeper into the room. My gaze sweeps over the bed and the last untouched tray of food Daniela must’ve delivered. It’s long since gone cold.
“Why not?” I ask, darkly curious as to her answer.
She blinks, thrown by the question. Her brows draw close as she falters for an answer. “Because… because, eventually, my loved ones will come looking for me.”
“That won’t be happening. I’ll make sure they never find you.”
The words disturb her on a whole new level.
It’s funny we’re both wearing masks—mine literal and hers figurative—and hers slips in this moment. Her features flicker with horror as she quickly spins on her heel to face the window again.
She doesn’t want me to see how she breaks; she doesn’t want me to know she’s on the verge of tears as she tries so hard not to cry.
“Why did you pretend to be someone else?” she asks, her shoulders quaking.
“Care to elaborate?”
“You know what I mean. Why did you pretend to want to be with me? Why act like I meant something to you if this was the plan all along?”
Portia turns to face me now, the hurt finally etched into her expression. Her eyes are dark and misty enough to show my reflection, a cold and aloof man in a suit and devil’s mask.
“You could’ve just hurt me from the start,” she whispers. “I would’ve preferred it that way. It would’ve, ironically enough, been less painful.”
She truly doesn’t understand what’s going on, even if she believes she has it all figured out. From her point of view, she’s fallen in love with a man who has now taken her captive and who will be ending her existence very soon.
But she doesn’t realize she’s wrong. She’s wrong because she has the wrong man.
Rafael does love her; he loves her more than she can ever possibly conceive. But I’m not Rafael, and I never will be.
He had his time to be in charge, and now it’s my turn to take over.
I look Portia in the eye, sensing how she hopes for some kernel of sympathy—some small sliver of comfort from the Rafael she’s fallen in love with—and I show her there is none to be found here.
None that will be coming from me, Il Diavolo .
“My staff will be bringing you a change of clothes,” I say matter-of-factly.
“You will bathe and then change into them. Then they will bring you another meal. You will eat it. If you don’t, we will have a problem.
And I will have them stick a tube down your throat and force feed you.
Now dry your eyes and obey, or find out the hard way. Your choice, Portia. Choose wisely.”