17. Portia
PORTIA
For days, I replay what happened in the guesthouse over and over, hoping I imagined it all. The scene reemerges in my dreams, manifesting even more nightmarishly than in real life.
I wake gasping for air, soaked in sweat, shaking against my will.
It becomes a pattern I can’t control as Il Diavolo invades my subconscious in the worst ways. Not only do I remember the moment he grabbed me and kissed me, I remember every sensory detail of the moment.
Every strangled breath drawn. Every hard press of his lips. Even how his fingers felt gripping the flesh on my arms as he held me and refused to let go.
It’s almost worse than the kiss itself.
…which I don’t even know where to begin to make sense of. I don’t know how to make sense of anything that happened that night.
Rafael had written me that escape note; he had waited for me on the terrace only to turn into Il Diavolo.
But it was against his will.
I had been wrong all along—Rafael Calderone and Il Diavolo might’ve inhabited the same body, but they weren’t the same man.
Just thinking about it makes my head hurt.
I had assumed from the moment Il Diavolo turned up at the airport that it meant he must’ve been Rafael. But I believed Rafael was fully cognizant the entire time, that he was acting out of cruelty, and it meant he had been deceptive our entire relationship.
If Diavolo was another personality of his, then that meant it was possible Rafael had little to no idea about what his alter ego was doing…
Even watching him transform was uncanny. It was like watching a man become someone else while remaining himself the entire time. Rafael was still Rafael, but entirely different, as perplexingly as it sounds.
I could tell the difference at once. The two men were so distinct it’s disturbing to think they inhabit the same body.
There’s little else to do to pass the time but fixate on these things when locked away in a room at the Bellucci villa. I spend the days either reliving the nightmare that was the kiss from Il Diavolo or picking apart the situation with Rafael’s apparent Dissociative Identity Disorder.
The only person I come in regular contact with is Daniela, and honestly, I’m grateful. I’d rather deal with the rosy-cheeked maid than Il Diavolo or any of the Belluccis and their guards.
She comes by several times a day, dropping off trays of food for breakfast, lunch, an afternoon snack, and then in the evenings for dinner.
I’ve dropped the attitude and long ago stopped refusing to eat.
When she returns to collect the trays, she usually finds them with only a few crumbs left to spare, if not completely empty.
A pleased smile comes to her face when she sees I’ve obeyed, effectively making her job easier.
After a few days, the pleased smiles are paired with a bow of her head and, “Grazie.”
More than bored out of my mind, I start answering her in Italian as best as I can. “Prego.”
That only makes her smile widen as she excuses herself from the room, and I’m left alone again until her next visit.
In need of some sort of mental stimulation, I grab the Bible from the nightstand drawer and begin reading it. First silently, then aloud when my throat aches from lack of use. I’m pacing the room, reading passages to myself like I’m giving some sort of sermon.
I don’t even notice the door is open and Daniela has carried in a tray with today’s la merenda. She’s smiling and nodding along, the tray in hand as she listens to every word I recite out loud.
Warmth flushes my face as I clap shut the book and toss it on the bed. “Um… I was bored. And going a little crazy locked in here.”
She nods as if in understanding, then carries the tray over to the same table by the window where I eat my every meal.
Normally, I’d think nothing of it, but I can’t help watching her place the tray on the table. Today’s afternoon snack is fresh-out-of-the-oven bread coated in olive oil with mozzarella and ripe tomatoes on top.
“Daniela,” I say.
“Hmm?”
“You can understand me, can’t you?” I ask slowly.
She hesitates to answer, stepping back from the table and wiping her hands on her apron. Her cheeks flush a similar shade to the tomatoes she’s serving me for snack, clashing horribly with her honeyed brown hair.
“You can,” I say more certainly. “You know more English than you’ve let on.”
She bites on her bottom lip, then gives a guilty nod of her head. “I was instructed not to speak to you. It was easier if I pretended.”
Of course, Il Diavolo and the Belluccis wouldn’t want the staff like Daniela speaking to me—it would open up the possibility we would actually bond or form some kind of kinship. That would be the last thing they’d want for a captive.
For someone as sweet and kind as Daniela seems to be, that must’ve been a difficult command. It makes total sense why she’d pretend not to speak or understand much English at all.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say simply. “You can still pretend you haven’t spoken to me.”
She glances at the door, wringing her hands. “Don Vito is a very strict boss. But… he is old and frail now. He’s not who I’m worried about.”
“It’s…” I gesture to my face to signify the devil’s mask, and she fervently nods.
“He’s very… he is very particular. It’s not smart to go against his rules.”
A sigh leaves me as I sink down onto the edge of the bed. “Which is why I’m probably going to be stuck here for the rest of my life, aren’t I? However long he decides to keep me alive.”
Daniela frowns, a small wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. Her eyes dart to the door again out of paranoia, then she lowers her voice another notch. “But he’s not in charge all of the time. Or even most of the time. He is not… he’s not the dominant one.”
My frown matches hers. “What do you mean?”
“Personality,” she whispers. “He is not normally this… awake .”
“You mean he could disappear at any moment,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “And Rafael could return again?”
“That’s what has happened before. He has never stayed in control. It’s only a matter of time. Not if but when.”
I inhale a deep breath, holding onto every word she’s spoken. It’s the only glimmer of hope I have after what I’ve been through.
Rafael could return any moment, and when he does, he’ll be enraged by what’s happened. He’ll be desperate to make things right again like he was the brief moment on the terrace. He’ll want to get me as far away from Il Diavolo as possible…
“You miss your family, yes?” Daniela asks.
“Miss them? I’d give anything just to hear their voices,” I say. “I can’t imagine what they’re thinking. I’m sure all sorts of lies have been spread about what’s really going on.”
Daniela’s eyes shift to the door, then return to me. “Maybe… later tonight… I can let you place a call. Only a brief call to your sister. So you can let her know you are alive and well. But you must be discreet. You must not misuse the phone or get into trouble. If he found out I let you use it?—”
“I would never do that,” I interrupt quickly. “Please, I’d be very discreet. It would be under a minute or two. Just a call to let Jayla know I’m still breathing and whatever lies have been told are false.”
“When I bring supper later.”
Daniela pats my hand and then flees from the room like she’s worried we’ll be found out at any second.
It’s only a phone call, but it’s the biggest opportunity I’ve had since Rafael’s note to have any sort of contact with the outside world.
Suddenly, the dread that’s left me feeling suffocated and hopeless recedes if only slightly. If only for the moment as I count the hours until supper and Daniela’s return with the phone.
Later that evening, I’m on pins and needles waiting for supper. It’s not about the food, though the meals the Bellucci staff prepares are gourmet.
It’s about what Daniela will be bringing when she delivers my tray. If everything goes according to plan, she’ll bring her cell phone, and I’ll be able to make a call to Jayla to at least let her know I’m alright.
It feels like the night I’d tried to escape all over again. My stomach flutters with nerves as I pace the confined space of the bedroom and count down the time until the moment arrives.
Daniela doesn’t knock like she usually does.
The bedroom door creaks as it opens and she slips inside. I immediately go tense, only to discover it’s the stout, rosy-cheeked maid.
She steps inside with the same kind smile I’ve come to recognize, her hands steady as she balances the silver tray between them.
She doesn’t say much, but a sense of urgency flickers in her eyes.
She sets the tray down on the table near the window, revealing a plate of steaming tomato pasta glistening in a shallow pool of oil, slices of roasted eggplant curled like blackened flower petals.
And beside the plate, nestled discreetly between the silverware and napkin, is a cell phone.
My heart stalls inside my chest.
Daniela doesn’t linger for long. She straightens, brushing hair behind her ears, and then turns to walk out the door.
“Half an hour. I’ll come collect the tray. Please be quick… and eat everything.”
I’m holding my breath until the lock in the door clicks and the pad of her footsteps dies down the hallway.
Then I pounce.
The meal is gone within a few minutes, shoveled down between frantic glances at the door.
I’ve never been a fast eater yet tonight’s an exception—I shovel the pasta in quick forkfuls, barely chewing a single bite before swallowing.
The bread and eggplant disappear just as urgently, consumed in such a rush I don’t taste a thing.
A single minute can’t go to waste on food when I have this opportunity in front of me.
Once the plate is wiped clean with hardly a crumb left, my gaze lands on what’s most important.
The cell phone.