14. Portia
PORTIA
Every hour in Il Diavolo’s custody feels like its own eternity.
I can hardly get a wink of sleep trapped in the room they’ve put me in.
It’s not the accommodations that are the problem—it’s the fact I’m being held captive by one of the deadliest mafia bosses in the world.
He made it clear my loved ones won’t ever know what happened to me.
Sleep comes in fitful increments where I toss, turn, then spring up heaving panicked breaths and staring in the dark as if I’ll wake from this nightmare.
I never do.
Over the next few days, I’m confined within the same four walls.
Il Diavolo was right that his staff would provide me with what I need. They come at various intervals, dropping off fresh changes of clothes and trays of food. They answer no questions, though they also speak little to no English, which means they couldn’t even if they wanted to.
The first two days, I refuse to eat.
The trays remain untouched on the opposite side of the room, even as my stomach gurgles desperately. On day three, as it growls and feels like it’ll soon start eating itself, I realize I’m only punishing myself.
Besides, one of the maids who frequents my room—whose name I learn is Daniela—threatens to tell Il Diavolo about the missed meals.
At least that’s what I think she means when she delivers breakfast on the third morning and fumbles through a few English words.
The last thing I want is another confrontation with Il Diavolo. I’d be happy if I never had to see him again. If I never had to think about him ever again.
Of course, it’s impossible when I’m locked away in a bedroom for days with little else to do but overanalyze every excruciating detail of the situation I’ve found myself in.
I’ve stopped thinking of him as Rafael altogether.
He’s yet to confirm his identity, but I’m not sure it even matters at this point.
Rafael Calderone was no normal businessman; I discovered this for myself as I started digging into his past. He’s not only affiliated with the Bellucci family, he seems to have become the man he is today because of the crime family.
He’s a mobster.
But still, even now, there’s a part of me that wonders what if… what if there’s something I’m missing?
What if the man behind the mask isn’t who I think it is?
Il Diavolo smells nothing like Rafael. I’d know his scent anywhere. I know his eyes . The spark that lives in them.
Nothing about Il Diavolo reminds me of Rafael, other than the fact he’s a tall, broad-shouldered Italian with dark hair and clean-cut suits, but those things aren’t exactly unique.
I just can’t make sense of why he would bother making me fall for him. What was the point of tricking me into a relationship? What purpose did any of it serve?
Il Diavolo doesn’t strike me as a man who wastes time. Every action seems to have a purpose behind it, yet I’m supposed to believe he spent weeks courting a woman for no reason at all?
It doesn’t add up.
“Does it matter?” I whisper to myself. I’m pacing the room for what has to be the millionth time in three days. It’s early afternoon and there’s little else to do.
The bedroom is nice, but there’s no modern entertainment like a television or computer to keep me preoccupied. I’ve asked for my phone so many times I’ve lost count.
They won’t even let me have a book. The only one in the room is the Bible in the drawer of the bedside table.
I’ve been so bored, I’ve found myself flipping through it, reading passages.
The door opens and Daniela enters with a small tray.
“La merenda,” she announces. She walks the tray over to the oval table where I’ve been eating and sets it down. “Il Diavolo wants… you… come later…”
She motions with her hand as though to leave. My brows knit trying to understand what she’s saying.
“He wants me to go with you?”
She shakes her head to the side. “No,” she says. “Him.”
“With him?”
That earns a nod yes. “Dopo.”
I’m still confused watching her turn and walk out of the room. The lock twists half a second later.
I nibble on the ‘la merenda’ she’s brought, which is Italian for a light afternoon snack, items like cured meats and cheeses and fruits like fig and slices of pear.
Why could Il Diavolo possibly want me to go with him somewhere? Where would he even be taking me?
Unless he’s letting me go free, there’s nowhere I want to go with him. I want nothing to do with the man, let alone being in his presence if I don’t have to be.
It’s on my mind for the rest of the afternoon. I think of ways to protect myself if it comes down to it; if this is some mob-style execution he’ll be taking me on.
Picking up the glass cup Daniela’s filled with tea, I let it fall to the ground so it shatters into a dozen different pieces. Then I carefully select one of the pieces and slide it into my pocket.
Daniela comes rushing in only a few seconds later, shrieking in Italian at the mess she finds. I play it off innocently, offering profuse apologies as I kneel to help her clean it up.
At six sharp, she returns to collect me for Il Diavolo.
“Come,” she says. “He wants you.”
I draw in a deep breath and then drag myself toward the door with visible reluctance. I’m not sure what I’m expecting as I step into the hallway for the first time in three days, but it’s not to find Il Diavolo waiting for me right outside the door.
From how she made it sound, she was going to be escorting me to his quarters or private office.
But as soon as I step past the threshold, there he is.
I stumble to a stop a few feet away from him, the air vanishing from my lungs. He stands formidable and unmovable in his suit and devil’s mask, his arms folded behind his back, his gaze already set on me.
“Portia,” he says in greeting. “Follow me.”
Il Diavolo leads me down a long corridor paneled in wood so dark it nearly swallows the light.
Every few paces, an antique sconce flickers like a dying heartbeat, casting deep shadows.
We reach a set of double doors carved with what looks like some sort of historic Sicilian coat of arms—lions and eagles among laurel wreaths. Without a word, he pushes them open.
The study is cavernous and well-furnished like the rest of the house seems to be.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves sag under the weight of old law tomes and ledgers, their spines cracked and leathery.
Oil portraits of dead men glare down from ornate frames, their eyes as judgmental as they are lifeless.
A fireplace yawns along one wall, its grate stacked with logs though no fire burns.
The furniture is all sharp lines and dark leather, more suited for strategy and business talks than comfort.
He points to a lone accent chair positioned to the side of the room, deliberately removed from the central seating. Like a dog in the corner. I glance at it, then back at him, refusing to move at first.
“Sit,” he says, his tone authoritative.
With a sigh, I obey and sink into the chair.
He crosses the room with the confidence of a man who’s made decisions that cost lives and drops into a leather club chair across from Don Vito and Anthony Senior.
The old don reclines with a cane across his knees, his hunched frame swathed in a fine wool suit that hangs too loose over his bones. His skin is yellowed with age, his knuckles like knots of driftwood.
Anthony Senior is already seated with a tumbler in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, his graying hair slicked back like a washed-up television gangster.
Il Diavolo adjusts his tie and picks up his glass for a sip. “There was a matter you wanted to discuss, Don?”
Don Vito leans forward and hacks into his handkerchief, a wet and phlegmy sound that echoes in the room. “The situation we now find ourselves in… and how we intend to handle it.”
No one looks at me. I could be the rug beneath their feet for all they care. I straighten in my chair, arms folded tight as I watch them carefully.
I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever this is, there’s a reason they wanted me here.
Anthony Senior speaks first, tipping his cigar to the side to flick ash into a crystal tray.
“Whatever decision we come to, we’d better be damn sure it’s the right one.
This isn’t the kind of mess we can wipe clean.
Once the media gets a whiff, it’s over.” He takes a sip from his glass.
“Last thing we need is more on our plate. We’ve got enough to deal with with Tuco. ”
From where I sit, I catch the subtle shift in Il Diavolo’s posture. He tenses up, his right hand curling into a fist. Though his grotesque devil’s mask conceals his face, I can still tell his jaw clenches.
He’s angry. Anthony Senior’s words were a subtle jab at him.
“The only reason it’s gotten this far,” he says coldly, “is because you suggested keeping her here. You know what would’ve happened if I had my way.”
My stomach knots and the next breath I try to draw comes up short.
They’re talking about me. Not just around me, but about me, like I’m not an autonomous person at all. I’m just some object for them to dispose of.
Anthony scoffs, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “If you think we can just blast a famous TV reporter and dump the body like nothing, then you really are crazy. You think American media won’t look into it? And worse—” he stabs his cigar in Il Diavolo’s direction, “you think he’ll stand for it?”
My brows pinch. Who are they talking about?
“He’s not coming back,” Il Diavolo snaps.
“You say that now,” Anthony says, popping his cigar back into his mouth. “We’ll see when he returns in the next few hours.”
“I’ve handled him. For good. I’m in control now.”
Anthony hacks out a laugh. “You know what’s funny? Rafael used to say the same thing about you. Isn’t that why he stopped receiving help for your problems?”
Il Diavolo leaps from his chair, knocking it over, sending it crashing to the floor with a loud and violent thud. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”