15. Portia
PORTIA
Ten p.m. comes and goes.
My stomach drops. I wait with bated breath for something to happen, gaze trained on the door. When the turn of the hour arrives and nothing does, I let out a deep breath and shake my head. How could I seriously think it was real and not some demented joke?
Il Diavolo probably left the note himself.
Probably got a huge laugh imagining me hopeful throughout the day, counting down the hours.
I drop my face into my hands and remind myself this is what he would want. He wants to break me mentally, emotionally, physically.
This is just another means of doing that.
I can’t let him get to me, no matter how hopeless this situation feels. A real chance at escape will come when I least expect it?—
An abrupt knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. My head snaps up at the sound, and I question if I’ve just heard what I think I have.
Then I notice the pair of feet I can make out from under the crack in the door. They’re slender, the same kind of loafers the staff wears.
It couldn’t be…
I leap off the bed and rush toward the door to answer, wrenching it open in sheer disbelief. Daniela is on the other end. She presses a finger to her lips as soon as we’re face to face, signaling for me to be quiet.
“Follow,” she mutters.
I hesitate for only half a stunned second before I scramble to follow. I’ve stayed dressed for a reason, remaining in my day clothes in hopes the note had been true; I would actually get a chance to escape today.
Daniela moves quickly and I trail behind her, barely daring to breathe.
The villa is cloaked in stillness, the kind that feels heavy and deliberate, like the house itself is holding its breath.
We creep past thick mahogany doors and marble busts that leer at us in the dark.
The only sounds are the soft creaks of the floorboards beneath our feet and the distant murmur of voices from deeper within the estate—too far away to make out clearly, but close enough to make my heart stutter.
We descend the staircase in silence, gripping the railing as we go.
Halfway down the ground floor hall, she signals for me to stop.
I duck into the nearest shadow, my back pressed against the cool stone wall.
One of the guards rounds a corner just ahead, his footsteps sharp against the floor.
I swallow my gasp and stay still, watching as he disappears into another wing of the villa.
Daniela jerks her head and we’re moving again, this time past the kitchen.
The faint clatter of pots and the rhythmic scrape of a broom echo from within.
The lemony smell of kitchen cleaner fills the air as the staff scrub the kitchen spotless for the night.
They’re so engrossed in their work they don’t notice us flit by in the background.
We reach the end of the hall where we stop in front of tall glass doors flanked by heavy drapes. Through them are the terrace where the scribbled paper from last night had told me to make it down to.
Daniela gestures to the door. “Il signor Calderone è lì. Vai subito.”
I might only know a few words of Italian, but I can pick up on the name Calderone, and I understand what signor means.
My heart skips a beat at the mention of Rafael. I can hardly believe what I’ve heard as I look from Daniela to the glass doors leading out to the terrace.
She gives me an urgent nudge. “Go,” she says. “Now.”
I do as she says, twisting the brass handle and pushing the glass door open.
It’s surreal stepping out onto the terrace, the warm night air kissing my skin at once.
But I’m not even able to fully process the fact that I’m standing outside for the first time in days, because I’m more thrown by the man standing only a few feet away.
Relief rushes me, leaving me slightly lightheaded.
There he is in the flesh— Rafael stands in the warm glow of the terrace waiting for me.
He wears a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his thick forearms. His dark hair is tousled in just the way I remember, his beard neat and trimmed.
His eyes catch the light and resemble polished obsidian.
Seeing him is like seeing a piece of home after being stuck across enemy lines.
Suddenly, I don’t know how I ever thought he was Il Diavolo. They’re two completely different men. I can feel their different energy in the air, sense how as soon as my gaze meets Rafael, he’s drawn to me the same way I’m drawn to him.
In a way that can’t possibly be manufactured.
“Dolcezza,” he mutters, the same relief softening his deep tone.
Words elude me.
Without thinking, I rush toward him, crossing the terrace in a few quick steps.
He pulls me into him as soon as I’m within reach.
His arms wrap around me with a crushing strength that feels both comforting and secure.
I press my face into the side of his neck and inhale the clean, masculine musk of his cologne.
This is Rafael. This is nothing like Il Diavolo.
“We have to get you out of here,” he says, stroking my hair. “There’s no time to waste.”
I pull back slightly, brows knitted. “But what’s going on?”
His expression darkens, his features tense. “It’s complicated, Portia. I’m… not sure I understand myself. But I don’t have time to explain even if I did. I got here a few minutes ago. I just know I have to get you out.”
I’m still confused as he grabs me by the hand and starts pulling me forward.
We cross the terrace quickly, the clack of our shoes against the stone loud in the hush of the night.
The golden lights spill from the sconces and cast long, uncertain shadows across the path, but Rafael doesn’t hesitate.
He holds my hand tight, the familiar grip grounding me even as my mind spins with dozens of questions I don’t dare ask yet.
The urgency in his stride tells me we don’t have time. Explanations will have to come later.
We slip down a narrow stone staircase tucked behind a row of potted oleanders.
Beyond it lies a manicured garden, vast and labyrinthine.
The hedges rise tall around us, thick with summer’s fullness, and for a moment it feels like we’re being swallowed by the estate itself, its vines curling around our ankles as though about to pull us under.
Rafael slows just enough to press me back against a hedge, shielding me from the dim flashlight beam of a patrolling guard. My heart beats so hard I’m sure the sound will give us away, but the man passes by as clueless as ever.
Once we’re sure the coast is clear, we’re back on the move.
The garden eventually gives way to a tiled patio that curves around an Olympic-sized pool, its water glowing a ghostly turquoise under the lights.
Lounge chairs are lined up in rows on either side.
I want to ask where we’re going, where he’s taking me, how long he’s been back, but every time I open my mouth, he glances over his shoulder with that same tense expression, and I swallow the questions down again.
It doesn’t make sense—none of this does. If Rafael is affiliated with the Bellucci crime family, then why is he hiding from his own men? Why is he risking everything to sneak me out under cover of darkness like a fugitive? Have things turned sour between him, Don Vito, and Il Diavolo?
Is that why Il Diavolo said he had ‘handled’ Rafael? Did he believe he had eliminated Rafael, but Rafael has returned to come back for me?
But if that’s true, how did he find out I was here in the first place? Where’s Maurizio? Adagio?
They’re damn near his shadows. Very rarely are they ever seen without him.
We reach another row of hedges, these taller and thicker than the ones before. Rafael promptly releases my hand and turns his back, facing away from me. His posture tenses up as if he’s suddenly struck by pain, his breathing now labored.
I watch as he scrubs a hand over his face, fingers sliding into his hair like he’s trying to tear something out of himself.
“Rafael?” I reach out slowly, placing a hand against the back of his shoulder.
The second my palm touches him, he jerks away violently.
“Stay back!”
It’s not only his posture that’s changed, it’s his voice too. The energy he gives off.
The air around us thickens with something darker and unnerving. The warmth I felt from him only moments ago vanishes, replaced by a suffocating chill that draws tiny gooseflesh onto my skin.
I step to the side for a better view of him and that’s when I see it—it’s like his face is changing.
He looks like himself but unlike himself at the exact same time.
His features are shifting in ways that defy logic.
The angle of his jaw tightens. His eyes lose their warmth entirely, turning glassy and cold.
His lips curl into a sneer so venomous it resembles a mask I’ve now become all too familiar with.
He’s no longer the man who held me on the terrace. He’s someone else entirely.
He’s Il Diavolo.
But not in the way I initially suspected he was.
The realization hits so hard I almost fall back. I gasp aloud, a hand coming up to my mouth.
When I suspected Rafael was Il Diavolo, I assumed it was merely some secret identity he took on to conduct his illicit business dealings, like a pseudonym a person might use to protect their real identity.
Never did I consider Rafael and Il Diavolo were two entirely different men trapped inside the same body.
As I watch the change happen in front of me, there’s no denying the truth.
I’m so shocked and horrified it takes me several more seconds before survival instincts kick in and I realize I have to run. Rafael is no longer with me, which means I have to get the hell out of here.
I turn and take off, putting as much distance between me and Il Diavolo as possible.
I’m not even sure where I’m going, feet pounding across a winding stone path.
I cut between some hedges that scratch at my arms and snag in my hair.
One of my shoes slips off as I emerge on the other side, but I keep going, throwing a glance over my shoulder.
Though I can’t see him, I can hear the pound of his footsteps as he sprints after me.
A smaller building emerges up ahead, tucked near the edge of the estate. It’s dark and unassuming, barely visible through the cypress trees.
I don’t know what it is—guesthouse, guardhouse, carriage house—but it’s my only chance.
I reach it, breathless and trembling, yanking the door open and slipping inside before slamming it behind me. I twist the lock with trembling fingers, the heavy thunk of the deadbolt the first small relief I’ve felt since Rafael became Il Diavolo.
And then I make the mistake of turning around.
I’m not sure what’s worse: witnessing Rafael transform into a monster like Il Diavolo before my eyes or coming across a room like this .
The gooseflesh that had crawled over my skin earlier returns in spades. It comes back along with a cold, unsettling chill that blows through me.
I’m surrounded by… me.
The room is dimly lit with only a single lamp desk on, but I can see what lines the walls. Dozens of photographs. All of them of me.
My face on camera at Metro News. Me on the beach in Jamaica. Wedding photos of me and Lincoln.
Even old news articles from my time at Newport University, when I wrote for the school newspaper.
I step toward the desk and see stacks of files, all of them with my name and various dates. Some are filled with documents about me. Others are emails. One in particular is about the Queenie Tate contest I won two years ago.
I pick up the sheet of paper, disturbed as I read the exchange between Rafael and the executive producer, confirming I would be ‘selected’ as the winner. The trip to Sicily wasn’t so luck-based after all.
It was a set up from the start.
And the thing is… I’m not so sure it was Il Diavolo who did any of this.
This was all Rafael. He orchestrated it that way. He’s been watching me, following me, always meaning for it to end up like this.
For him to lure me. Make me fall for him.
I’m so disturbed and shocked I don’t hear the click of the lock and the door falling open. Il Diavolo appears, now in his devil’s mask as he pushes the door closed.
“You found his room,” he says, sounding darkly amused. “You didn’t think he was the good guy, did you?”