17. Portia #2
My fingers tremble reaching for it. The first time I dial Jayla’s number, my nerves get the best of me and I screw up the digits. I get it wrong and wind up calling some fast food restaurant in Newport. I hang up and try again, heart thudding faster for every ring of the phone.
Panic surges as the possibility she won’t answer increases. What if I still have the number wrong? What if I run out of time? What if she doesn’t even answer?—
“Hello?”
Her voice is groggy, riddled with sleep. The sound is so familiar it almost transports me back in time; it’s almost enough to make me forget about this terrible period of my life where I’ve been taken captive by a deranged mafia boss in a devil’s mask.
I’m back in Newport, sharing an apartment with my sister.
It’s Sunday morning where she is, which means she’s sleeping in late. The fact that I know this makes me want to smile despite how grim my circumstances are.
“Jayla,” I say, relief washing over me. I clutch the phone to my ear like it’s a lifeline. “It’s me, Portia. I’m alive. I’m okay, don’t panic. I just needed to let you know I’m safe. Please don’t worry about me.”
Her voice rises an octave. “Portia? What the fuck, sissy? Where are you? What are you talking about? You… wait, what do you mean you’re safe? Where the hell?—?”
“There’s no time,” I whisper urgently, glancing back at the door. “Just listen. If Adagio or Maurizio are with you, tell them Rafael needs help. He… he’s not… he’s not himself, Jayla. Something’s wrong with him and Il Diavolo’s taken over. Just promise me, Jayla?—”
“Portia, what are you saying? You’re not making any sense. Slow down.”
The door bursts open with a violent snap, slamming into the wall. I spin around, so stunned I clumsily slide the phone behind my back.
Diavolo’s in the doorway, his devil’s mask obscuring his face, dressed in his usual all-black suit. He doesn’t need to move or speak to be menacing; his presence is more than enough. Behind him, shrinking into herself like a child caught misbehaving, is Daniela.
“What do we have here, dolcezza?” he asks in his cool, venomous tone. “Are you breaking the rules again?”
I stand outside the door to Il Diavolo’s quarters, my belly quaking with uncertainty. Even if I wanted to run, there’s nowhere to go.
The Bellucci guards wait at the end of the hall in case I try anything.
When Il Diavolo walked in on me with the phone in my hand, he didn’t react in immediate anger like I expected he would. He was almost amused, as if he had expected I’d try something like this.
He knew who had helped me—Daniela was promptly called from the kitchens downstairs. She appeared like a bashful child aware of wrongdoing, head bowed and a deep frown on her round, rosy-cheeked face.
I had to listen to Il Diavolo threaten to fire her as she begged for forgiveness. Guilt filled me like lead. The only reason she was in trouble was because she had been trying to help me.
But Il Diavolo knew exactly what he was doing; he knew that Daniela would beg and I’d be filled with remorse and guilt.
It was part of the mind game he was playing.
When he sent her away, he turned to me and demanded I show up to his private quarters.
“I’ll deal with you there,” he said. “And if you try anything else, dolcezza—you’ll come to regret it.”
He didn’t wait for my response or to see if I’d even follow. He knew I had no other choice as he stormed off.
My fist hovers in the air as I inhale a deep breath and then finally pull the trigger.
I knock on the door, knuckles tapping against the heavy dark wood.
“Enter.”
The door creaks ominously as I turn the brass handle and push it open.
“You… um… you wanted me to come by?” I remain in the doorway as if I won’t be setting foot inside his room.
His private quarters look like what I’d imagined—dark wood and darker accent colors like navy and matte black.
It’s once again a reminder of how different he is to Rafael.
Rafael tended to favor sleek all-white furnishings with splashes of black.
He doesn’t look up from the papers scattered across his mahogany desk. In the dim lamplight, his dark hair falls across his forehead, the rest of his face obscured by the devil’s mask he wears at almost all times.
But by the sharp angle, I can still tell his jaw is clenched in controlled fury.
“Close the door.”
The quiet command sends ice through my veins. I’m slow doing what he says, hesitating for a couple seconds.
The door snicks shut, the sound jarring in the silent room.
“You tried to use the phone.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong?—”
“Says who?”
“I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to use a phone whenever I want?—”
“Says who?” he repeats sharply, scribbling away at his document.
“Says me!”
Now his head snaps up, those dark eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. Il Diavolo rises from his chair with predatory grace.
Suddenly the spacious room feels suffocating.
“You do?” he asks, his head tilting. “And since when do you make the rules?”
“Since when do I have to follow them?”
He scrubs a hand at his jaw, stroking his chin through the mask. “Look around you, dolcezza. You’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Maybe…” I gather more breath in my lungs, standing straighter. “Maybe that’s where I was trying to get back to.”
“And who were you on the phone with?”
“No one.”
“Don't.” He moves around the desk, each step slow. “Lie to me, Portia.”
My name on his lips is both a caress and a threat. I back against the door, heart hammering against my ribcage.
“Isn’t it obvious? You already know it was my sister. She doesn't know where I am. She's been worried?—”
“Your sister.” He stops mere inches from me, close enough that I catch a couple of the clean notes of his cologne—it reminds me of soap and cotton mixed with leather, an expensive scent that makes my head spin. “Is not your concern anymore.”
“She’s my sister . She’s my family. She’ll always be my concern!”
“You have been told the rules. No contact with the outside world. No attempts to escape. No phones.” He punctuates each word with another step closer until I'm trapped between his body and the door. “First you tried to escape. Now you’ve tried placing calls on the phone. Do you know what happens when you break the rules?”
My mind flashes to the other night in the guesthouse, where I’d come across Rafael’s room of obsession and infatuation.
It’s been days, yet I can still feel the kiss he gave me. My lips tingle even at the memory.
“The least you can do is let me speak to my sister. Just… just so I can let her know I’m okay and she can tell our par?—”
“You broke the rule,” he says over me. “It doesn’t matter why, dolcezza. It doesn’t matter how or with who. All that matters is that you broke it.”
“What are you going to do?" I lift my chin, meeting his gaze with more courage than I feel. “Kill me? Isn’t that what you and the don are already plotting? A way to eliminate me without the American media finding out and things getting too messy?”
Fury flashes in his eyes. Anger mixed with a darker, hungrier emotion. He looms closer, holding my gaze to unnerving effect.
“No dolcezza. I'm not going to kill you. Not tonight. But I am going to teach you what happens when you disobey me."
Before I can react, his hands are on my waist, easily lifting me off my feet and carrying me to the leather, throne-like chair by his desk. I struggle against his viselike grip, his strength overwhelming.
“What do you think you’re—LET GO OF ME!”
I try to twist away as he sits down, but it’s useless as he pulls me down firmly over his lap. One large hand presses against my lower back to keep me in place, holding me down where I am.
“The more you fight, the worse this will be for you. The more humiliating I can make this.” His voice has dropped to a gravelly whisper that sends unwanted heat pooling low in my belly.
I squirm in his lap, legs kicking out. “Please?—”
“Silence! You’ve said enough. From now on, you speak when spoken to, dolcezza. This isn’t a treat for you; this is punishment.”
My eyes go wide at the clang of his belt buckle, then fast whoosh of the leather being yanked through the loops on his pants.
“Wait,” I gasp. “You can’t seriously be about to— oh !”
The little yelp of surprise tumbles out of me as he slams his palm into my ass.
A warning shot if there ever was one.
It’s a hard smack, one that makes my spine go straight. I squirm all over again in his lap like some piglet about to be led to slaughter.
But Il Diavolo remains unfazed. In fact, the more I do struggle, the firmer his grip becomes. The more resolute the energy he gives off is.
“You made your choice when you dialed the number on that phone. Now you deal with the consequences. Every time you sit down over the next couple days, you will think of what you did wrong. You will squirm in your seat on your beautiful plump sore ass, and you’ll remember me.”
“No!” I squeal.
“Yes!” he growls, flipping over the dress I’m wearing and exposing my bare ass. He palms the curve of it for a second like he can’t help himself.
My eyes squeeze shut at his touch.
The heat burning inside me spreads, flushing onto my brown skin. But I fight back against it, reminding myself again and again this isn’t Rafael.
This is Il Diavolo.
And no matter how good his touch feels, it’s wrong. He’s sick and twisted and it doesn’t matter if he knows how to fondle me just the way I like.
“Such a beautiful ass,” he says, squeezing the supple flesh. “It’s a shame to mark it.”
“Diavolo!” I cry out in protest.
But he’s no longer listening—the first strike lands across my ass, the sting sharp vibrating straight through me.
I bite back a whimper, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
It doesn’t matter to him either way; the leather kisses my skin in brutal fashion only for him to bring it back down seconds later.
He’s folded the belt in half, ensuring the brutal leather is what makes contact each and every time.