20. Portia
PORTIA
The mirror reflects a woman I haven’t seen in weeks—shoulders bare, lips tinted a rose red, barrel curls loose, tumbling over one side.
The gown is a shade of navy blue, off-the-shoulder with a sweetheart neckline and lace bodice.
Satin drapes the skirt portion, hugging my hips, highlighting their curviness in the most flattering manner possible.
I look like some old Hollywood starlet.
If it were any other occasion, I’d feel gorgeous and sexy. But instead I feel sick to my stomach. My reflection is nothing more than a reminder I’m dressed for him.
That tonight I’m going to be spending the night with him.
I have no choice in the matter. What else is new?
Since I’ve been taken captive by the Belluccis, I’ve had little choice in anything that’s gone on.
Daniela comes up from behind with a sheepish, almost apologetic bend to her mouth. She holds up a pair of sapphire gemstone earrings that dazzle in the bedroom lighting.
“These are for you to put on,” she says in a gentle tone. “His wishes.”
I sigh, barely fighting off a roll of my eyes. “Right… when isn’t it?”
Daniela helps pin on the sapphire earrings and then looks me over one final time, fussing with the train of my dress and a flyaway hair at the back of my head.
“Bellissima,” she says, nodding her approval. “He’ll be satisfied with the results.”
“That almost makes me want to ruin the dress…”
Daniela gives me a mortified look and then grabs me by the hand to lead me out of the room. The idea I could be serious terrifies her to the bone; probably because it wouldn’t just be my ass on the line if I were to do such a thing.
She’d be punished too.
We hurry down the wide staircase like I’m Cinderella and we’re late for the ball.
In reality, I’m not rushing off to meet my Prince Charming at all. It’s exactly the opposite.
The man that waits for me at the foot of the stairs might bear his face and even inhabit his body, but he’s the devil incarnate.
The mask he wears isn’t just for show.
Il Diavolo is the manifestation of every bad part about Rafael.
All the darkest pieces of him concentrated into an entirely separate being. As we scurry down the steps and he peers up at me, my stomach ripples with nerves for what could be in store.
He’s in an immaculately tailored three-piece suit darker than midnight. His signature mask is back in place tonight, the dark crimson leather gleaming in the low light, the devil’s horns looking sharper than usual.
The only other splash of color on him comes from the pocket square tucked into the right side of his suit jacket. It’s the same dark crimson as his mask, serving as a stark contrast against the midnight black.
“You look stunning,” he says as soon as I’m within reach.
I hesitate for half a second, then mumble, “Err… thank you.”
His head tilts to the side. “You’re allowed to accept compliments from me, dolcezza. It’s called having manners. Otherwise known as basic civility.”
“I’d rather just get on with the evening,” I reply stiffly, avoiding his gaze.
He chuckles. “Very well. But first.”
His hand slips into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, from which he pulls out a long, narrow box—smooth, lacquered, elegant; it’s for jewelry .
He holds it out to me with a nod, like a challenge.
“Open it,” he says.
You’d think he’d offered me a vial of snake venom the way I take from his hand, reluctant but compelled. I hold the box in the palm of my hand distrustfully, like I’m prepared to drop it at any second should there be anything remotely problematic.
Sliding the top off slowly, I gasp at what’s inside. Nestled against a cushion of black velvet lies necklace you’d see in some glass case in museum.
…or maybe a film like Titanic .
The giant sapphire stone reminds me of the ocean as it twinkles under the Belluccis’ chandelier lighting on its delicate white gold chain.
“I thought of you when I saw it,” he says.
“I don’t want this.”
I shake my head, already trying to hand it back.
He’s quicker than I am, slipping the necklace from the box and stepping behind me before I can return it to him.
“I insist.”
I go still, my breath catching in my throat as I feel the cool kiss of the chain against my collarbones.
His fingers brush the nape of my neck. The contact sends a shiver down my spine.
I hate the way my body reacts to him so immediately, like it believes he’s Rafael when it couldn’t be further from the truth.
My teeth pull my bottom lip in between, and I try to ignore the heat prickling my skin.
But he takes his time, lingering behind me. He moves slowly, his touch sensuous as he clasps the necklace into place.
How his presence can be magnetic and oppressive all at once, I’ll never know. It makes no god damn sense, yet here I am fighting how hard desire rises up so instantly inside me.
He leans closer, his breath grazing my ear.
“A rare gem,” he murmurs, voice low and dark, “for an even rarer woman.”
I’ve not only gone speechless, I’ve gone breathless. My thoughts are scrambled, and my body has once again betrayed me.
He steps around to face me again, gaze unreadable behind that mask. Then he extends his hand once more, less as an offer and more a command.
“Venire . Or we’ll be late. The show begins soon.”
Before I can gather myself, he takes my hand without asking and leads me toward the door, his grip unyielding, his pace brisk. The expensive necklace lays flush and heavy against my chest as the double doors open wide and the cool, dark night swallows me whole…
We ride in silence.
The car engine hums, filling in for the lack of conversation. The streets of Palermo unfold around us. We watch it happen through the tinted windows in a blur of golden lamplights, darkened storefronts, crumbling monuments, and tourist hotspots.
Every so often I sneak a glance over at Il Diavolo.
He stares out the window as if the scenery holds answers he’s not ready to share.
His posture is relaxed, but there’s something about the tilt of his head, the stillness of his shoulders, which tells me his mind is elsewhere. He hasn’t spoken since we left the villa.
Maybe I should start a conversation.
…which sounds like an insane thing to do considering he’s my captor, but this is the first time he’s bothered taking me outside the house.
Out into the real world, where things move and breathe and exist beyond the Bellucci estate’s gilded cage. Maybe I should be trying to work this somehow—use the opportunity to read him better, find a crack in his facade. If I can just get close enough, maybe I can shift the dynamic. Find an angle.
Maybe even bring out Rafael again. Or at the very least, get him to show his cards.
I clear my throat and soften my tone. “So… what show are we seeing tonight?”
He doesn’t answer at first, his gaze remaining on the window. “You’ll see when we get there.”
I almost roll my eyes before catching myself in time. Instead, I shift in my seat, smoothing my hands along the satin fabric of the gown.
“I’ve never been to the opera before.”
He turns away from the window for his first glance at me since we left the villa; his eyes dark and piercing behind the devil’s mask.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m taking you.”
I’m not sure how to respond or what to think by the blunt admission.
…except it seems to confirm something I’ve sensed about him.
The other night he was angry when I pushed him away. He was livid when I rebuffed him, clearly preferring Rafael.
It seemed to genuinely bother him on some level. It felt a lot like hurt feelings from a jealous lover.
Could he be… trying to court me? Is this his version of seduction? An evening out, a fine dress, expensive jewelry, a performance meant to impress me? The thought seems absurd—and yet it sticks, worming its way through the cracks in my logic like water seeping into stone.
I run my tongue across my bottom lip, wetting my lip as if to draw his attention to the area.
“Do you enjoy the opera?”
He looks back over at me and answers without hesitation. “Yes. The opera is an Italian masterpiece. It is one of the greatest cultural contributions this country has ever made.”
The certainty with which he answers takes me back. He sounds reverent about it.
Genuinely appreciative.
I fall quiet, startled by the answer and what it reveals.
I didn’t imagine Il Diavolo as someone who cared about things like art or culture or anything beautiful, for that matter.
Rafael never showed much interest in music or theater—he was always more pragmatic, more grounded in the tangible world.
But this? This is something else entirely.
He sounds like someone who sees power in elegance. Poetry in pain.
I say nothing else for the rest of the drive, my thoughts turning over and over inside my head.
When we finally pull up outside the Teatro Massimo, the car glides to a gentle stop against the curb.
Through the window, the grand columns of the opera house glow in the night.
Men in tuxedos and women draped in glittering gowns make their way up the cascading steps.
The air outside hums with prestige and old money.
The car door opens, the performance set to begin.
The interior of the theater is breathtaking, a cathedral of velvet and gold. From our seats in the balcony box, the view is panoramic, offering a full view of the stage and the orchestra pit.
Il Diavolo sits beside me, his posture composed but far from indifferent. There’s a quiet intensity to the way he leans forward, his gaze fixed so completely on the stage I can almost feel the concentration radiating from him.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone so absorbed by a performance before, his attention held by the music and storyline unfolding below us.
The opera we’re seeing is called La Traviata , and it’s known for its beautiful music and compelling storytelling.