14. Portia #2
“I know better than most! I’ve been here to see it all from the start!”
“Enough,” Don Vito croaks, pounding his cane against the wooden floorboards. A wet cough seizes him, rattling his frame like an earthquake. He fumbles for his handkerchief, sputtering until he can breathe again.
When he recovers, his eyes narrow at both men. “You argue like children. Is this what I leave behind? My legacy in the hands of juveniles?”
I cover my mouth with a shaky hand, blinking fast. The tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to let them. I’m too busy trying to process the sick realization: they’re not just talking about me —they’re talking about Rafael. About something done to him.
What does Il Diavolo mean, he handled Rafael?
Il Diavolo lowers himself slowly into the chair again, now eerily calm. “I have a solution that solves everything. It will ensure the media doesn’t get involved and her loved ones are handled.”
Don Vito eyes him skeptically. “And him?”
“He won’t come back. And if by some miracle he does, it’ll be too late. She’ll be gone.”
“You’ve made this claim before. He has made the same claim too, as Anthony has pointed out. Your old doctor swore up and down it was managed.”
“He didn’t know what he spoke of. It was not managed then. But it is now that I’m in charge.”
Don Vito gives a slow nod, then murmurs in Italian, “Bene. Buon lavoro.”
Anthony Senior seems to take that as his signal the meeting is over.
He crushes his cigar into the tray, downs what’s left in his glass, and storms out without a backward glance.
Don Vito stands with effort, leaning heavily on his cane as he limps from the room, each step punctuated by a labored wheeze.
Il Diavolo turns to me. The devil’s mask tilts slightly, shadowing his features, but there’s no mistaking the finality in his tone.
“Come, Portia. Follow me.”
And like a woman walking toward her own execution, I rise.
Dread fills me more with every step I take following in Il Diavolo’s wake. I can’t even bring myself to protest like I told myself I would. I said I’d fight back if he were to try something, yet here I am, so stunned I’m numb.
I follow obediently after him back down the corridor, wondering why he subjected me to the meeting in the first place.
The only explanation is it was just another mind game. Just another form of torture. Another way for him to exert his dominance and show me how little control I have.
He reemphasizes this as we finally reach my bedroom.
He unlocks the door and steps aside for me to enter.
I bite down hard on my tongue, pushing down the intense loathing I have for him and stepping into the room like I’m supposed to.
He follows after me, snicking the door shut and twisting the lock.
“Daniela and the others have told me about your behavior. You’re unhappy here. But you won’t have to suffer for long. It’ll be over soon.”
He knows exactly what he’s doing telling me these things. Just like he knew what he was doing bringing me to that meeting.
I turn my back to him before showing any reaction. My arms rest across my chest as I try to keep myself in check, but the numbness is finally wearing off.
The rage has been building for hours. It’s been building for days.
Since the moment he revealed himself for who he truly was.
Since I was taken. Every humiliation, every cryptic threat, every cold glare from behind that devil’s mask.
My hatred for him moves through me like molten metal, scorching everything in its path, blinding in its heat.
I feel it rising—up my spine, into my throat, burning behind my eyes. I can’t contain it another second.
I slide my hand into the pocket of my jeans. My fingers curl around the jagged edge of the glass I tucked there earlier.
And then I spin around and launch myself at him.
He’s still only a few steps away, standing as firmly as ever, awaiting a reaction from me. But something tells me he never expected one like this.
I charge with every ounce of fury in me, my feet pounding against the floor, arm raised and teeth clenched.
His hand shoots out, catching me at the wrist. We’re locked in a violent tangle as I twist and jerk to free myself from his grip, and he clamps down harder.
“Let go of me!” I scream, anguish entrenched in my voice. “I fucking hate you!”
I wrench one hand free as I thrash in his hold and he tries to subdue me all over again. But I’m a split second faster this time, plunging the glass deep into the first piece of him I can reach—jamming it straight into his left shoulder.
The roar he releases is instant, loud enough to rattle the room. It’s a guttural sound that’s pure fury and almost inhuman. His body jerks backward instinctively, and then he retaliates, flinging me to the ground so hard the air is knocked out of my lungs.
The walls spin around me, my spine aching from colliding with the floorboards so roughly. For a few seconds, I can’t even move as I blink and sputter out a breath.
Through fuzzy vision, I see him standing above me.
He pulls the glass shard from his shoulder with a wet, slick sound.
Blood streams freely down the front of his suit like crimson ink, though he doesn’t seem concerned it’s staining the fine fabric.
His breathing is labored, the grotesque devil’s mask on his face only making him look that much more unhinged.
A sharp tremor of fear surfs down my spine.
Shit. This isn’t good.
I scramble back, but he’s already moving toward me. He reaches me in a couple quick strides, his hand seizing a fistful of my hair. I’m forced up with brutal force, my scalp prickling with pain. I cry out and claw at him defensively, but it’s no use.
He drags me to the bed, shoving me down onto the mattress like I weigh nothing. I’m barely able to writhe against the weight of his body before he’s pinning me in place and pressing a sharp object against my throat.
I go still as soon as I feel it.
He’s using the shard of glass against me.
I’m not even sure if he’s bothered to wipe his own blood off it. Probably not.
It’s more fun and demented that way.
The jagged edge bites into my skin, a simple cut away from slicing me open. He bows his head next to mine as he speaks, his voice slithering into my ear like snake venom.
“I could slit your throat right now, dolcezza. You must think I won’t. You must think you’re still dealing with Rafael.”
I roll my lips together to keep the cry from bubbling out of me. Tears slide down my cheeks anyway.
It’s a word I haven’t heard since that night we had dinner. I’d never imagined it would be the last time I’d hear it from him, or that it would be used as a taunt from a man like Il Diavolo.
“ He would never hurt you. But I am not him.”
The glass digs deeper. I wince as a single bead of blood leaks from my neck.
“Don’t fucking test me,” he growls. “Because I will have you bleeding out on the floor. I will hurt you and think nothing of it.”
Every part of me is sick with disgust. I can sense the grin behind his mask and hear the amusement in his voice. He enjoys these sorts of moments.
Maybe he was hoping I’d do something like stab him all along.
It gave him an excuse to punish me. For him to taunt me in this way.
“That’s right, Portia,” he says as if reading my mind.
“I know all about your relationship with him. I know what he used to call you. I know you’re still holding out hope you’ve been wrong.
That he’s some hero that will come rescue you.
You’re going to be very disappointed. He’s never coming.
You’re stuck with me now. And if you want me to make this as painless as possible for you, you better get with the program. This is the last time I’m telling you.”
The glass lifts from my throat and he shoves me back down on the bed. It takes me another second to push myself back up and turn over, but by the time I do, he’s stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut.
I lie there, my chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, eyes wide and heart still racing. I’m so shaken and terrified I don’t move for minutes to come.
Later in the night I’m back to not eating, but for different reasons. The first two nights it was out of protest. This time it’s because I’ve lost any possible appetite I could have.
I’m nauseous and sick to my stomach, unable to even sit still. It feels like any second Il Diavolo or some of his men will turn up and take me somewhere to put me out of my misery. They’re clearly planning on doing it soon.
It didn’t help that I stabbed him with the shard of glass.
I sigh as I plop down on the windowsill and stare through the iron bars at the dark grounds of the Bellucci estate.
The villa’s vast gardens sprawl out beneath a moonlit sky, bathed in a silvery stillness that does nothing to calm the jumbled thoughts inside my head. I’m not sure how long I’m sitting, staring out the window, when a sudden tap sounds at the door and makes me jump.
It’s quickly followed by something sliding under the crevice in the door.
What looks like a folded sheet of paper.
I hesitate, staring at it from my perch like it might detonate. My pulse flutters fast, warning me not to trust anything that comes from this house. But I find myself sliding off the windowsill anyway, crossing the room to pick it up from the floor.
It’s a torn scrap from some sort of ledger or notebook. The message is written in black ink, scribbled with urgency, like someone didn’t have long to write. But it’s not the words that make my chest seize. It’s the familiar handwriting I’ve seen before.
If you want a chance to be free… tomorrow night. Ten p.m. Back terrace.
I reread it so many times, I start to question if it’s some sort of joke or trick from the Belluccis. Just another cruel taunt set up by Il Diavolo.
But am I really in a position to turn down any potential chance at escape?
My hands start to tremble at the thought I could make it out of here.
I don’t know what’s more terrifying—believing this note might be real or fearing it’s another one of his games. Another way to watch me squirm. To lure me into hope just to snatch it away again.
My gaze shifts toward the barred window again, but this time I don’t see the garden or the statues.
I see a clock ticking down to tomorrow night.