24. Portia
PORTIA
It wasn’t the kiss itself that undid me—it was how careful it was. How gentle and deliberate he was, like he didn’t want to hurt me for once.
The moment was tender and unexpected, a kiss between two lovers, and it left me stunned that a man so cruel could be so soft.
It seemed like Il Diavolo had finally realized many of his ways were doing me harm, and he was truly remorseful for it.
He was concerned about my well-being and wanted to make sure I was okay.
As his lips pressed against mine, I let him.
I didn’t turn away, didn’t slap him or curse him out or remind him of all the ways he’s made my life a living hell over the past couple weeks. I tilted my chin up, let my lips brush his, and closed my eyes against the sudden flutter in my chest.
For that single moment, I didn’t feel like a pawn or a prisoner anymore.
It was simply a small, tender moment between two people whose relationship was such in a gray area, I didn’t know what to begin calling it.
I sleep late into the morning after he leaves the room, lulled by the pain meds, the residual heat from the pad draped across my abdomen, and the exhaustion from everything I’ve been through over the past twelve hours.
My limbs feel weightless. The rest of my body achy. It’s easier not to move.
The flare-up refuses to back down that easily.
It leaves my insides feeling like it’s been chewed up and spit out by a meat grinder.
But the medication keeps some of the throbbing, stabbing pain at bay.
I find myself curling around the heating pad like it’s a lifeline, letting its warm pulse soothe the aches and pains.
The next couple days blur together.
I mostly spend them in bed like Dr. Delfino advised, only getting up when necessary. Mara checks on me a couple times a day and brings me light food. Things like more stracciatella soup and lightly toasted bread with olive oil and sea salt and herbal tea laced with honey.
She’s usually quiet, though I sense the same kind of sympathy Daniela had for me. It serves as a reminder how much I miss the rosy-cheeked brunette; I never got a chance to say goodbye before we left Sicily…
I don’t see much of Il Diavolo over the next few days, though traces of his cologne linger in the bedroom. It’s still different from Rafael’s, which is spicier and woodier while Diavolo’s has more of a clean, understated note to it, almost like some mix of soap and cotton.
Though he isn’t around during the day, he does come by at night.
It happens late, when I’ve already been asleep for a few hours. The door cracks open and his silhouette appears in the hallway. He never comes inside, standing at the threshold like he’s checking to make sure I’m in bed and not somewhere bleeding on the floor like the other night.
Then the door eases shut again as if he never came by.
I pretend I’m sleeping, lying still under the sheets and blankets. But, really, I’m processing the fact that Il Diavolo’s mere energy changes the chemistry in the room, much like Rafael’s does. I’ve come to realize it brings the same level of comfort and security.
I snuggle closer to my pillow, pulling the bedsheets tighter, and sleep off back to sleep.
By the third day, I’ve started to feel more like myself. The worst of the flare-up has passed, and I’ve become restless and in need of more to do than sleep and watch movies on TV.
Mara comes by to change the linens on the bed, noticeably relieved I’m feeling better.
“Signore has requested your company tonight,” she says, smoothing the top sheet over the mattress.
“He has?”
“You’re to be dressed by seven. He’ll be spending the evening with you.”
That gives me pause as I think back to other evenings we’ve spent together.
“Did he say what we’re doing?”
Mara moves onto the pillowcases. “He didn’t tell me. Only that you should dress well.”
I exhale slowly, gaze drifting toward the window, where traffic flows up and down the streets many stories below.
It’s hard to say if Il Diavolo’s plans are as enjoyable as the night we’d spent watching La Traviata in Palermo or if he’ll revert back to more menacing nights like when he caught me calling Jayla.
But come 7 p.m., I make sure to be dressed like he’s asked.
The silver dress I’m wearing was a suggestion from Mara I realized was really from Il Diavolo himself. I agreed since it was not only flattering with its midi length, slim cut, and capped sleeves, but the silvery sheen catches beautifully in the light.
We’ve stuck with my signature red lip and kept the rest of my makeup simple, other than emphasizing my lashes with the help of some mascara.
When the elevator doors to the penthouse floor roll apart, I don’t turn around right away. I’m adjusting the clasp on my bracelet, praying tonight will go well.
But then I feel the energy in the air shift, and I realize he really has arrived. I turn around to find him already staring at me.
Though his mask obscures the rest of his expression, his eyes do the talking. They’re dark, burning with desire and possession.
The look he gives me instantly steals my breath away.
It’s a moment that goes on for longer than I realize as we stand in silence, staring at each other, and when he finally speaks, I’m startled.
“Magnifica.”
It’s the only word he says as he steps toward me and takes my hand.
My cheeks flush, warmth flooding me. I glance away before my smile gives me away too much. He notices it anyway, giving my hand a tug.
“It’s time,” he says. “There’s a car.”
We ride in a limo through the downtown Newport streets.
I’ve lived in this city my entire life. It only takes me a couple blocks, recognizing buildings and street signs, before I realize where we’re headed.
I glance over at him, arching a brow. “Wait. Are we going to the opera?”
“I realized you had a good idea,” he answers with half of a shrug. “Maybe the first time you’ve had one.”
“Really? You’re one to talk. You are the one who’s taken a woman captive.”
“That’s not a bad idea. That’s perhaps the best idea I’ve ever had, dolcezza. Then who would I have to come with me to see the show tonight?”
I openly roll my eyes at him, shaking my head.
He merely chuckles, then adds, “I figured I’ve never been to the opera here in Newport, like you pointed out.… and you seemed to enjoy La Traviata. I decided it would be worthwhile to see another.”
He doesn’t offer any further explanation; he doesn’t really need to.
My smile stretches on anyway.
We arrive at the Newport Performing Arts Theater just as the first wave of patrons stream inside. The attendees are a lot like the ones at the Teatro Massimo, well-dressed and polished.
The Newport Theater is more modern than the Massimo, though no less refined. It’s all gleaming dark glass and brass fixtures.
On the inside, you can glance up at the ceiling and see the night’s sky.
I realize as we’re milling into the theater and the usher hands us a program at the door that we’ll be seeing Don Giovanni .
A thrill passes through me.
Once again, we’re escorted to a private balcony—this one placed centrally like the last, giving us a perfect view of the stage and the full expanse of the orchestra pit below. The lights dim gradually and conversations die off.
Silence falls over the crowd as the overture begins.
Il Diavolo sits beside me in silence, one leg crossed loosely over the other, his hand resting on the armrest between us. I glance over, curious to see if this opera holds his attention the way La Traviata did.
I’m not sure why I ever thought it wouldn’t—Il Diavolo clearly was serious when he said he has a great respect for the opera. It seems to be one of his favorite forms of entertainment.
His eyes are fixed on the stage as though he doesn’t want to miss a moment.
I smile and let myself become absorbed too.
The music builds around us in powerful fashion. Somewhere in the middle of the second act, when Don Giovanni’s fate begins to creep closer, I glance at Il Diavolo again—this time more out of habit than anything—and catch him already watching me.
“Enjoying yourself, dolcezza?” he asks in a quiet tone.
I give a small nod, our gaze holding for a second longer.
I’m not sure what comes over me, but for maybe the first time since Il Diavolo has emerged, I touch him first. His arm is still on the armrest that divides our seats, and without thinking, I lay my hand atop his.
He doesn’t react or pull his away, simply glancing down at our hands, then turns his attention back toward the show.
We remain that way for the rest of the opera, our hands touching but not entwined. The warmth from his skin feels as comforting as his scent does, once again in a way that Rafael’s would.
I ignore how conflicting this makes me feel, like I’m experiencing things I shouldn’t.
Rafael is the man I had a relationship with; he’s the man I’m in love with.
Il Diavolo is… he’s…
I can’t even complete the thought before the performance swells to its climax and then the final curtain falls.
The audience leaps to their feet in thunderous ovation. Il Diavolo’s up before I am, applauding the cast as they take their bows.
We clap until our palms sting.
After the opera, we don’t head straight for the car.
Instead, Il Diavolo motions to the limo driver and lets him know to circle the block a few times. We’re going to be going for a walk, crossing over to the park grounds near the theater.
The night is crisp but not cold, with a breeze that comes and goes. The park is one of the biggest in Newport, with rows upon rows of hedges and wrought-iron gates at the entrance.
At this time, it’s mostly empty, except for the occasional straggler.
In the middle of the grounds, a massive golden fountain gleams against the dark plum backdrop of night. It sprays crystal clear water, the bottom of its basin full of all the coins people toss in after making wishes.
We walk slowly, taking our time as we pass through.
“Did you like the show?”
I turn toward him, lifting an incredulous brow. “Are you kidding? I loved it.”
He gives a nod, the edges of his mouth lifting. I can tell from the edges of his mask, spotting the telltale signs in his profile.
“I’ve always liked stuff like that,” I say, holding my clutch to my chest. “Back in college, I’d try to see at least one Broadway show every season.
That’s all I could afford back then, but I made it count.
Split tickets with Jayla or some other friends, sat way up in the mezzanine. We didn’t care.”
“That’s good,” he says after a moment. “It’s good to come from humble beginnings. It makes you appreciate what you have more.”
“You came from humble beginnings too—you and Rafael both.”
“That’s true, dolcezza,” he admits, drawing a deeper breath. “But he’s never been proud of where we come from.”
It’s true Rafael always seemed to shy away from discussing his past. I had considered the reasons why, concluding it must’ve had to do with his impoverished beginnings.
As Rafael Calderone, he seemed determined to prove he was wealthy and established. More than once I could tell he was genuinely trying to impress me by spoiling me. The entire vacation to Sicily and the various shopping trips have begun to feel that way in hindsight.
But the more Il Diavolo discusses their childhood, the more I’m wondering if maybe it’s even more than that. Maybe Rafael never wanted to discuss his past because of the ugliness that went beyond his poor beginnings. Could that be why his psyche split in two in the first place?
The wind blows past us, so brisk and cool it sends a ripple through me. I shudder and drift even closer to Il Diavolo as if to absorb his body heat.
“What did you mean the other day? You said there’s a reason Rafael’s drawn to me. That you’re drawn to me. You said you had a connection to me for a reason. What did you mean? Is it because I grew up without my biological parents? Because I didn’t have money? Is that the reason?”
“It’s not my place to tell you,” he says after some thought.
I stop walking under one of the many lamplights we’ve passed, turning to face him.
“You’ve made it your place to tell me other things. You brought me to that room—the one Rafael has of me. You showed me the photographs, the newspaper clippings, all of it. You made sure I saw what he’d hidden. All the surveillance he’d been doing.”
He’s stopped too, sighing as he reluctantly listens to the accusations.
“This is different. You have been under enough stress lately.”
“Enough stress? What could you possibly say that would make me any more stressed?”
But I never get my answer.
Diavolo goes still beside me, almost like he’s fallen asleep in the middle of our conversation. I stare at him, confusion knitting my brows.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can, he turns away, giving me his back. His hands come up, pressing against the devil’s mask. His shoulders hunch forward, labored breathing grinding out of him like it’s painful.
I step forward without thinking, a hand extended.
“Wait, what’s wrong?”
His breathing only deepens as, with a sudden anguished motion, he tears the mask free and pivots to face me.
I freeze.
Standing in front of me, chest heaving in broken rhythm and eyes wide with the familiar gleam I recognize, is Rafael .