18. Diavolo
DIAVOLO
Twice now, I’ve broken my own rules for her. Once with a kiss. Once with my cock buried deep inside her.
I pride myself on restraint, but with her it seems there’s no such thing.
It isn’t control I feel when I’m around her. It’s a need unlike anything I’ve ever comprehended, so consuming and intense it takes over.
I become a starving man. A ravenous man who must have her.
And then I come to my senses and am left fuming and enraged. I’m confronted by the reality that I’m no better than him .
He’s supposed to be the one addicted to her; the one obsessed with her.
Yet, somehow, it’s manifested into my consciousness too. It’s become a part of me I can’t escape, and no matter how hard I fight it, I keep giving in.
As I order Portia away and Daniela scrambles to take her back to her bedroom, I’ve lost all trace of composure. I’m dragging ragged breaths into my lungs, my hair disheveled and my pants half undone. My eyes are narrowed and dark behind the devil’s mask, the glare I give them bone-chilling.
The two women trip over their own feet making themselves scarce.
The door slams shut with a resounding thud, and I release roar before I pick up a porcelain vase and fling it at the wall. It shatters into dozens of serrated pieces across the floor. Another mess for Daniela and the others to clean up.
But I don’t give a fuck.
Jamming my fingers through my hair, I pace the large room and urge myself to calm down.
This is unlike me. I’m not the emotional one.
He is.
I’m not the one prone to fits of anger and passion.
That’s always been him.
I’ve always been his better half. His darker half that had to do the things he couldn’t do when the time came for it.
Keeping a cool head has always been my strength. But as I pace the private chambers, dragging a hand through my rumpled dark hair, it feels like cracks are forming.
He’s bleeding through. He’s pushing his way out no matter how hard I fight to keep him in.
I rush from the bedroom into the ensuite, flicking on the light as I stagger to the large mirror.
There he is, staring back at me in the glass. He’s in the same suit, but polished and refined, perfectly put together at a time where I’m a fucking mess.
“You motherfucker!” I rage, jabbing an angry finger at him. “This is your doing, isn’t it? You’re the one setting me up like this! That in there with her? That was all you! That wasn’t me! Get the fuck out of my head!”
He merely stares back at me, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement.
As if I weren’t already on the edge.
More anger swells up inside me and I snatch the ceramic tissue container and smash it into the glass.
His face splits down the middle, the cracked glass spraying everywhere. Several tiny flecks fly at me, nicking my skin, making me bleed.
But I smile anyway from behind the devil’s mask, pleased by the destruction. He’s gone from my sight, and that’s what matters.
He seems to believe he will reemerge as the dominant, but he’s wrong. This time won’t be like the others. I’m in the driver’s seat now. I’m the one who calls the shots and makes the decisions.
Il Diavolo has come out on top.
Now, he’ll have to suffer from the dark recesses like I have for so many years. He won’t have any say in what goes on while I rule the empire I’ve built brick by brick.
I stagger out of the bathroom, determined to pull myself back together. He won’t be throwing me off my game any longer and neither will she. I’m going to run circles around both of them, because that’s what Il Diavolo does.
She has managed to bring out a deeper, more carnal side of me—tapped into some part intrinsically linked to him—but that’s where it ends.
I am where it ends, because I am always in control. Their connection can’t override my reign and what I’ve set out to do. I’ll prove it not only to them but myself.
I’ll show Portia and the man who is so in love with her why I’m the devil I am.
Sleep normally comes to me dreamlessly. I only need a few hours of dark, uninterrupted silence to be able to function. But lately when I close my eyes, she’s there waiting for me.
She appears sprawled across silk sheets, her limbs bare and glowing in the light from the fireplace. The lacy lingerie she wears is sheer against her brown skin, offering a tease of the curves waiting underneath. Her dark eyes find mine with that demure twinkle she normally reserves for him.
It’s like a temptress, daring me to come closer.
And I do. Every fucking time.
Even in the dream, I know what it is. I’m not delusional enough to believe I’ve conjured some alternate reality. But it feels real—sickeningly, seductively real.
The texture of her skin beneath my hands, the scent of her perfume mingling with the smoke in the air, even the soft breath she takes as I lean in.
Every last detail feels awakens my senses. They crackle to life inside me after so long spent dormant.
I’m not a man who feels often. I’m not a man who cares for the usual kind of thrills and excitement most people enjoy.
My sole purpose is to dominate and rise to power.
But as I lean in and drag her intoxicating perfume into my lungs, I’m indulging for once. My fingers trace her inner thighs and her lips part as our mouths hover inches apart.
She’s inching closer to me like she’s been waiting all night for this too.
Her eyelashes flutter. She’s closed her eyes.
I stroke the inside of her thigh and she moans.
How is it possible to have skin this fucking soft?—
I jerk awake, my body half sitting up in bed. It’s minutes before the alarm I set is about to go off. The curtains are drawn, but hints of dawn slip along the edges.
So it really was a dream.
Did I really expect any less? Did I really think she was lying in my bed? Where did the fucking silk sheets come from?
I scrub a hand over my face, then get out of bed to start the day.
By the time I make it down to breakfast, the sun has already climbed high enough to stain the villa’s marble floors with pale golden light.
It streams in through the arching windows, gilding everything it touches, but it does nothing to soften the mood in the dining room.
The air always feels lifeless and sterile in a room traditionally reserved for family sharing meals together.
No amount of polished silverware can ever change that.
I enter fully dressed in the uniform they expect from me—charcoal suit and wine-colored tie, the devil’s mask firmly in place. I’m not showing up to breakfast for nourishment or companionship. I’m here for formality’s sake.
For the opportunity to discuss business with Don Vito.
But only two members have bothered to attend breakfast this morning.
Anthony Senior, already elbow-deep in his usual heap of eggs, croissants, and cured meats, chewing with audible satisfaction.
Opposite him sits Olivia, prim and perfect in a pale silk dress, her legs elegantly crossed as she flips through the latest issue of L’Officiel . Every so often, she takes a sip from her cup of espresso, turning to the next page of her fashion magazine.
Neither says a word as I take my seat.
The silence is brittle and uncomfortable, but what else is new when it concerns this wretched family?
The Belluccis are known for their wealth and prestige, not for their warmth and tenderness.
He has always navigated these spaces better than I have—they’ve always preferred when he’s here than when I am, particularly Anthony Senior and Sofia.
Anthony views him as something of a nephew type while Sofia sees him as a big brother.
I don’t give a fuck about faking any sort of familial connection. None of it matters when Don Vito will inevitably die and I’ll restructure the family how I see fit anyway.
The Belluccis are in for a wakeup call when I run things; they’ll kiss my ass and greet me good morning then…
Perhaps that may be why, as I take my seat, Olivia’s posture stiffens. She doesn’t meet my eye, sipping from her espresso, but her grip on the cup tightens.
Anthony doesn’t look up either, but as soon as he believes I’m not paying attention, he’s sneaking a glance in my direction.
“Where’s Don Vito?” I ask, folding my hands neatly on the table.
“He’s unwell this morning. He said he’d rest up and join us for supper instead.”
So it will be just us. Underboss and Capo.
We’ll have to pretend to cooperate while wondering how long the other will last once the old man finally rots.
A staff member bustles into the room to offer me breakfast, but I wave them off with a simple request of freshly squeezed orange juice.
Anthony huffs a laugh around a mouthful of food. A piece of fried egg clings to the corner of his lower lip. “Still won’t take that thing off? We all know what you look like under there.”
“If you don’t understand the purpose, then it perfectly illustrates our differences, wouldn’t you say?
I think it speaks to the roles we’ve been chosen for,” I explain calmly.
The staff member returns with my juice, but I ignore them, gaze set on Anthony and only Anthony.
“It’s not a character to put on and take off.
It’s not some charade to put forth when necessary.
It’s much more, much deeper than that. Perhaps that’s why you never could fill Vito’s shoes. ”
The smile slides off his face so fast it’s almost comical.
As if sensing the tension, Olivia sets her cup down with a clink and scoots her chair back. She seems to have lost any interest in her espresso and her fashion magazine as she excuses herself from the breakfast table with hardly a word.
Anthony wipes his mouth, finally catching the piece of fried egg stuck to his chin. He’s livid, his complexion burning a shade of red that’s similar to the pancetta on his plate.
“You ready for our little field trip today?” he asks instead, tone neutral but eyes sharp.
I reach for the glass of juice and take a single sip. “Lead the way. After all, we’re on your turf, Smoky.”