18. Diavolo #2
The warehouse at RossoVerde is tedious in a way that bores me. Nothing about the place has changed in the almost twenty years since its opening.
Every metal drum is stacked as it should be, every crate labeled in identical font, barcodes aligned in meticulous fashion. The floors gleam under the overhead lights, buffed clean every night by maintenance personnel.
All of it managed by Anthony Senior.
He walks ahead of me with the same smug gait he’s always had concerning RossoVerde; his shoulders are squared and his chin is tilted, like he’s proud of his creation.
The pharmaceutical company has played a big part in the Belluccis’ financial success in the drug trade over the past few decades.
Most recently, RossoVerde has helped with the launch of Nectar in Newport.
As he gives me a tour of the facilities I do not need or care about in the slightest, he lectures on and on about export numbers and potential expansion.
“We can go big time,” he says, gesturing at a set of shrink-wrapped pallets marked for shipment.
“RossoVerde can supply every lab we’ve established stateside with the resin they need.
East Coast first, then the major hubs—Chicago, DC, Houston, LA.
We’re going national fast. And this place gives us the advantage to do it cheap and quietly. Vito was all for it.”
I let out a hum, only half listening. The information isn’t new. I’ve heard every expansion proposal Anthony’s made. His ideas aren’t bad, and Don Vito seems mildly interested in them.
But I have an entirely different direction in mind, and as the one who will be calling the shots, the final say is mine.
Anthony stops in the middle of the tour to call out my noncommittal answer.
“You got a problem with something I said?”
“I wouldn’t call it a problem,” I say. “Just a different vision. I’m considering whether it’s still cost-effective to keep RossoVerde in the picture. It will likely be simpler to source the base resin from a supplier stateside. Something closer and more manageable. I’m sure you understand.”
Anthony Citti is hardly subtle when he’s pissed. The vein on his temple twitches, his teeth grinding together as he can’t bring himself to answer me.
He’s seething.
RossoVerde really has been his brainchild. It was one of his most successful ventures back when he was still just a capo and my other half was barely a made man starting out.
Anthony grew the place from the ground up, and Rafael being the natural businessman he is, helped him do so.
Even now, many years later when he could’ve easily replaced RossoVerde with other suppliers stateside, he hasn’t done it. He’s kept Citti’s baby alive and well.
But I’m not Rafael.
And respect and loyalty were never something I promised him.
Behind the mask, I smile as he nearly implodes before my eyes.
It’s just more confirmation the Belluccis aren’t ready for what’s to come when I really take over.
We finish the walkthrough in silence, the air between us thick with everything unsaid. He doesn’t bother with a closing speech this time, leading the way back to the town car in his sour mood.
The ride back to the villa cuts through the hills outside Palermo.
The sun burns off any last trace of morning cold. Cypress trees line either side of the road, their shadows flickering across the car windows like prison bars.
Many of the roads are long and winding, the landscape itself dry and golden with architecture made up of old stone houses and crumbling cathedrals.
We’ve been driving for ten minutes when Anthony finally speaks again.
“So. Portia.”
It’s only two short words, but they’re enough to force my attention back onto him. My gaze shifts from the window to the round Italian Santa Claus seated on the leather cushions across from me.
“What about her?”
Anthony sticks a cigar in his mouth, fishing inside his suit jacket for his lighter. “Don Vito expects her to die.”
“I’m aware of what Don Vito expects.”
“You say that.” He pauses to click the lighter, the flame flickering as he lights the cigar. “But I hope it’s true, Diavolo. I hope you’re capable.”
The tension spikes like it had inside RossoVerde.
I eye him like I’m contemplating jamming that cigar down his fat throat, and I am.
He blows some smoke out, then adds almost lazily, “Because, you know, it can be hard. Especially after the other night.”
“What the fuck do you mean after the other night?”
“You know the night. We’re all under the same roof. Guards talk. Servants gossip. You didn’t think I’d hear about your after-hours visitor?”
He lets his question go unanswered, though it doesn’t need one when we both already do know the truth.
He’s smirking now, reclining in the backseat, puffing on his cigar like the cocky son of a bitch he is.
Heat crawls down the back of my neck. My hands itch for violence. I glare at him through the holes in the devil’s mask, watching his every subtle move, debating if he’d squeal like a pig if I ripped his tongue out.
“Anyway,” he sighs. “You better tread carefully. Because whether you betray Don Vito’s wishes… or Rafael’s… it won’t end well for you.”
The town car rolls to a slow stop as we finally reach the iron gates outside the Bellucci estate. We’re waved through by the sentries at the front.
Anthony goes back to savoring his cigar, and I’m left fuming in silence. He gets the last word this time, riding through the gates triumphantly, but it won’t be for long that he gets to boast.
And when the time comes, I’ll make sure he knows to never fucking talk to me like that again.
Rain slides down the windows in slow, meandering rivulets. Beyond the pane, the garden and olive groves are pitch-dark this time of night.
The rest of the house is silent. Most of the Belluccis have vanished for one reason or another, leaving me and the staff to our own devices.
I stand alone in my bedroom, the air thick with woodsmoke from the fireplace. I’m admiring the rainy landscape as I prepare myself for the evening that lies ahead.
Tonight, I take back what’s mine.
Not just control, but dominion —the complete and final command of my mind, my family, my empire, and the woman who’s thrown it all off balance. If I’ve lost myself with her, even for a moment, then I’ll claim her now on my terms.
Not as he would, with sentiment and longing and that festering ache he calls love, but as Il Diavolo. The one who sets the rules. The one who uses and discards. The one who owns and dominates, destroying beautiful things like her.
But as I stare into the glass, it’s not my reflection that meets me.
It’s his .
Dark eyes, gleaming with the same amusement as ever. Dark hair, neatly combed away from his face. Handsome features that often charm and draw women wherever he goes. His jaw is set but relaxed.
I know that face. I've seen it enough in mirrors, in photographs, in the reflections of water whenever I’ve dared remove the mask.
He always stares at me like I’m the trespasser. I’m the intruder.
I’m the one who’s not real, who’s stolen from him, and not the other way around.
“You’ll never take over,” I grumble, barely above a whisper.
Then louder comes his answer, rolling off my own fucking tongue in the worst betrayal.
I answer myself.
“Yes, I will. I will always take it back from you. Because it’s my life, not yours.”
The words snap at me like a lash from a whip. I step back from the window, suddenly husking out ragged breaths. My hands clamp over my face as if it’ll keep him from showing himself again.
But it doesn’t do a damn thing.
He’s inside me—bubbling to the surface, heat rising as it becomes more difficult to think.
I can feel him clawing his way out. He’s trapped in the same dark pit where I’ve spent so long. But he’s climbing out, growing stronger, pushing to invade my mind again.
Let me out. Let me out right now.
I grit my teeth and hold on, digging my nails into my scalp. They drag down into my hairline with enough pressure to sting. My breath catches, chest rising and falling as I fight back against his efforts, forcing his presence back into the pit where he belongs.
It’s my fucking turn now.
Mine… mine… MINE!
I would sooner burn the entire fucking house down with both of us inside than ever let him come forward again.
The rage pulses hot through my veins, thickening behind my eyes, roaring in my ears?—
Knock, knock.
The sound crashes through the moment all at once.
I whirl toward the door, unblinking, my breath still shuddering through my teeth.
“Come in!” I growl.
The heavy wood creaks open on its hinges, revealing a meek Daniela first—eyes downcast, shoulders drawn tight—and behind her, Portia.
She looks wary but defiant, wrapped in soft silk like I asked.
Daniela clears her throat gently. “Diavolo, la signora come richiesto.”
My lips twist into a grin. “Perfetto.”