22. Portia
PORTIA
There’s something especially cruel about being caged in the place you once called home.
I peer out the huge penthouse windows at the city I’ve lived in all my life, and every street corner holds a memory of a time I was happy and carefree.
Now it’s like I’m a ghost existing outside the world I was once a part of, and it breaks my heart a little more each day.
A sigh leaves my lungs as I turn away from the window and follow Mara to the dining room where breakfast has been prepared for me.
It’s funny, because I once found Rafael’s penthouse lush and luxurious, and though it still is, while it’s under Il Diavolo’s authoritarian rule, it’s lost any of its past luster.
These days, the penthouse feels cold and sterile.
Oppressive.
I sit down to my meal at the otherwise empty table and eat alone.
On the mornings I used to stay over at Rafael’s for breakfast, he’d often come out and have coffee with me.
We’d sit and talk and even look over the morning paper.
He was always so interested in current events and the world around him.
Always deeply engrossed in anything relating to me .
He wanted to know my thoughts on what was going on in the city, and I loved hearing him talk about business.
At the time, I hadn’t realized they were things I would miss. Soon we’d break up and things would become so complicated and insane I’d wind up held captive by him.
…at least to the untrained eye.
A man that vaguely looks like Rafael Calderone but is really some manifestation of evil living inside him.
I pick at the scrambled egg whites, sautéed veggies, and toast I’ve been served for breakfast and wonder how there’s possibly a fix for this.
How can I escape this situation? Is there even a way to help Rafael and destroy Il Diavolo?
Mara takes the plate away once I’m done pretending like I’m eating. The raven-haired Italian woman has refrained from smiling at me or giving any sort of sign that she was once so warm and welcoming.
It seems everyone who works for Il Diavolo knows to censor themselves even when he’s not around.
The one good thing about being held captive in the penthouse over the Belluccis’ villa in Sicily is that I have more freedom to roam. At the Belluccis’, I was specifically restricted to the bedroom where I was confined at almost all hours of the day.
At Rafael’s penthouse, it seems Il Diavolo has instructed his staff I’m allowed to wander through most of the penthouse except for a few select rooms, like his bedroom, office, and any others that likely contain important information I’m not supposed to know about.
But being an investigative reporter, I can’t help taking a peek or two.
There seems to be some sort of hub for the men in his employ. I notice they come and go through that room specifically, most of them armed.
They were the same men I often saw flanking Rafael. Except now it seems they’ve accepted Il Diavolo is officially their new boss.
Then there’s the second elevator that leads up to the penthouse.
I discover this by accident when I catch Maurizio and a few other men entering through the hall near the kitchens. He catches my eye at a distance, a flash of recognition in his dark eyes.
But he doesn’t reprimand me. He doesn’t utter a word. He carries on with the other soldiers as if he doesn’t see a thing.
I almost smile. It seems Rafael’s closest men aren’t Il Diavolo’s biggest fans either.
I spend the afternoon on the sofa, pretending I’m reading a book. But really I’m racking my brain for what I could do to better my situation.
Il Diavolo easily grows suspicious. He’s a distrusting man that doesn’t leave room for mistakes and judges harshly. The slightest mistake or misstep could really cost me. I could wind up in serious trouble if I make a wrong move.
I’ve also learned he’s drawn to me for some inexplicable reason. That much has become clear, even as he fights against the attraction he seems to have.
There have been times where he’s seemed genuinely angry with himself for the fact that he can’t resist me. It could be Rafael clawing his way out, or it could be some other reason for his attraction, but it doesn’t matter.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s something I could use to my advantage.
Mara informs me we’ll be having dinner together.
I’m to be waiting for Il Diavolo at the dinner table at six sharp. I show up minutes before in a simple black dress and a touch of makeup, aware I look good, but I don’t come across as if I’ve tried too hard.
That’s exactly the vibe I want to give off this evening.
Tonight’s about being demure and measured. Discreet and calculating so I can make my next move and hopefully better my odds of surviving this.
I’m seated when Il Diavolo walks in. He’s in his uniform of a devil’s mask and a crisp black dress shirt.
My lips quirk slightly as he takes his seat at the opposite end. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join me. I was starting to think I’d be forced to suffer through dinner alone again.”
He pauses for half a second as if uncertain how to respond, then gives a stiff nod and finishes settling in at his chair.
It’s amusing enough because it’s another reminder that he’s no Rafael—he’s much less sociable and not nearly as charming.
Whereas Rafael has a magnetism about him most people find appealing, Il Diavolo’s sullen and withdrawn.
He’s silent and observant from behind his mask, which makes me wonder if these are the pieces of Rafael he’s tried to rid himself of, but instead of doing so, he created an entirely new persona altogether.
I think back to what Natalia said in Ragusa about Rafael as a child. She claimed he was quiet and intense…
The staff deliver the first course of the evening. The antipasto is placed in front of us along with glasses of Chianti.
I pick up my fork and decide to push for conversation.
“So,” I say, slicing into a tomato with my fork, “how was your day?”
It sounds cliché—and maybe kind of absurd—asking a man who wears a devil mask and a suit how his day went. But I’m more concerned with trying to curry some favor than experience any meaningful conversation.
He stares at me from across the table, wine glass in hand, his true expression hidden by the mask. You would think I’ve asked him if he believes in Santa Claus.
“I mean, mine’s not exactly thrilling,” I explain, shrugging. “I’m a little limited in what I’m allowed to do these days. So I’ll just live vicariously through you. Mafia capos have exciting lives, right?”
He sets the wine glass down without taking a sip. “There isn’t much I can tell you about what I do.”
“It doesn’t have to be mafia related. There’re always the other ventures too. Rafael was a busy man. Have you been handling his business engagements in his absence? Since you’ve already taken over for him in other ways…”
His jaw clenches from under the mask, the muscle going taut. His breathing deepens, though he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.
More proof it irritates him when I bring Rafael up.
I brace for the potential reprimand.
“It’s none of your concern,” he says.
We fall back into awkward silence, returning to the antipasto and Chianti. Il Diavolo seems perfectly fine with doing so, in fact preferring dinner with no words spoken.
I sigh under my breath, dragging my fork in the olive oil on my plate. “Great. So much for charming him.”
But I’m not ready to give up just yet.
The staff return to clear the antipasto, replacing it with fragrant bowls of mushroom risotto, the scent earthy and rich.
I wait until we’re alone in the dining room again before I give charming Il Diavolo another attempt.
“Have you ever been to the opera house here?” I ask, sampling the risotto. “Newport Opera House. They used to run La Bohème every winter and spring.”
He gives no indication he’ll answer, like so many times before. He leaves me in mystery for several seconds, sipping from his wine as if considering whether the comment is worth a response.
“No,” he says finally. “I’ve never been.”
I glance up, head tilted slightly. “Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Oh,” I say. “I guess I assumed…”
“The other night in Palermo was my first time.”
I blink. “Your first opera ever?”
He simply nods, sipping more Chianti. “Yes, I have always wanted to go. But I have never been able to.”
“But… you said you’ve always wanted to go. Why haven’t you? Too busy?”
“No, more like I’ve never been awake long enough.”
His admission leaves me so startled, I’m speechless.
The staff have returned yet again to deliver us the main course, roast lamb and a medley of roasted peppers.
Il Diavolo ignores his staff and the fussing over him they do, ensuring everything is just right. His focus is solely on me, his gaze penetrative and scorching.
My face heats up, and suddenly I’m finding it much more difficult to look back across the table. I clear my throat and reach for my Chianti.
“You seem uncomfortable now,” he says. He tilts his head to the side. “Is there a particular reason?”
“Huh? Oh. Um… No reason. I guess I just… I…”
“You didn’t think about what it was like, spending your entire existence in the dark.”
“When you put it like that…”
“Maybe you can understand why I’m not so eager to give up control.”
“But you’re doing to him what he did to you.”
“Such is life,” he replies coolly, drinking more wine. “His happiness is not my responsibility.”
“But yours isn’t his either.”
“You defend him so naturally,” he observes, sounding almost amused. “It would be endearing if it weren’t so annoying.”
I half roll my eyes, my grip on the fork tightening. “I’m not defending Rafael. I’m pointing out the obvious—and here’s some more for you: you’re inhabiting his body. You’re stealing his life. Everything he’s created and made for himself. You’re a part of him ?—”
“Enough!” he roars suddenly. He slams a fist on the table and makes the plates, knives, forks, and wine glasses all jump.