23. Diavolo #2
The soup came half an hour later, when Mara knocked and brought in the tray. I didn’t expect Portia to eat much, but to my surprise, she did.
Gradually but gratefully like a rabbit would, taking modest spoonfuls so as not to overdo it.
Mara brought me a bowl, and it became a joint movie effort—we were officially watching the mob comedy together.
Now the scent of chicken broth and fresh herbs lingers in the room. The plot unfolds on the TV screen as we sit, a captive audience.
Portia lets out a laugh as the courtroom scene unfolds. Joe Pesci in that ridiculous suit, pacing in front of the judge, going off about tire marks and deer hooves.
Her laugh is loud and unrestrained. It makes the corner of my mouth crack into a grin. Then I’m chuckling too—or as close as I come to chuckling—when the rest of the scene plays out.
“It’s okay to laugh, you know,” she teases. “You won’t combust into flames.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
She spoons more soup from the bowl in her lap. “Is this… the first movie you’ve ever watched?”
“From start to finish? Yes.”
“Wow. So you’ve just been… what, brooding in the dark your whole life?”
“Not quite. But there are many things I’ve never done. Rafael’s lived most of our life. There wasn’t much space for me. Not until recently.”
Her brow furrows. “But… how can you remember anything from your childhood? I thought it didn’t work like that. I thought you didn’t... exist yet.”
“We existed together at first. Back then, the separation wasn’t so distinct. But life became… harder. And he began to change as he had to learn to survive.”
Portia watches me carefully, her expression unreadable. “You mean his childhood. That’s when it started?”
I nod. “Most people’s origin stories do.”
“I still don’t understand how that would split you in two.”
“You’ve lost your parents. You should understand more than most.”
“You mean Rafael losing his mother?”
“That was part of it. The things he had to do.” I pause for a few seconds before I add, “The things we had to do.”
Portia stares at the flickering screen, eyes unfocused, as if forgetting about the movie.
“My parents were gunned down. I was just a kid and they went out for a date night with Jayla’s parents.
It happened as they were walking out of a restaurant.
All four of them shot dead in cold blood like nothing. The police never caught who did it.”
I nod along. “I know.”
“ You know? Or Rafael does?” she asks sharply. “Is that something he researched before he ever spoke to me?”
Her question hangs in the air for a moment as I debate if it’s worth answering.
She’s not wrong to ask, and she does deserve the truth.
But the truth carries consequences, and I’m not sure how much more she can bear after what she’s already been through with her flare-up.
I settle on keeping things ambiguous for now. Not for him but for her.
“Rafael has always felt a connection to you for a reason, dolcezza,” I say slowly. “But I’m beginning to realize… so do I. Maybe he and I are not so different after all.”
“What does that mean? You’re not the same person. Not really.”
“Perhaps not. But we were shaped by the same experiences. Our mother was murdered too. Taken from us, just like yours was taken from you.”
Her lips part, confusion knitting her brows. “Why hasn’t he ever told me that?”
“It’s what set him on the path that led here. And maybe… maybe a part of him doesn’t even remember it the way he once did. Memory’s funny like that. When something hurts enough, the mind finds ways to bury it. It doesn’t matter what it is. Our minds work in mysterious ways.”
I rise from the edge of the bed and move over toward her side. Earlier I’d resisted the urge to stroke her hair, but I don’t even bother trying now. My hand reaches out for a gentle caress of her hair, brushing it away from her brow in a slow, soothing motion.
“Rest now, dolcezza. You need it. I’ll be back soon to check on you.”
I linger a moment too long, fingers slipping through her silky, straightened strands in unthinking strokes.
She looks up at me, lashes fluttering and dark eyes shining, and it stops me cold.
Once again I’m left struck by Portia James and the instant effect she has on me.
And suddenly I know I won’t be able to resist.
My head dips before I even make the choice, drawn to her like gravity’s shifted. She tilts her chin up toward me. Our lips meet in the middle, sliding together in a gentle, hesitant kiss.
She’s soft and warm and pleasant in a way that’s different from the other times I’ve kissed her, where lust was ruling me and I took her hard and rough.
This time I’m able to savor how the shape of her plump lips fit against mine.
How warm she is against me, so pliant and supple as I kiss her. It makes me regret not noticing these things sooner; not taking the time to go so slow, experience these kinds of moments together.
When I finally draw back, it’s with reluctance, the loss of her mouth feeling wrong. Her eyes flutter open slowly, looking more dazed than before, and I trace the curve of her bottom lip with my thumb.
She seems like she’s forgotten where she is. Truthfully, I think I have too. Without a word, I pull away and walk out the door before I do something even more foolish.