11. Portia
11
PORTIA
Several chaotic seconds go by where I’m lost as to what the hell’s going on. I’m walking away from Rafael and then I’m ripped off my feet and slammed against a stone pillar. Rafael’s body presses into mine like a warm and heavy shield I can’t begin to escape.
The sharp, crackling sound of gunfire fills my ears from all sides. I scream despite the fact that I’m easily drowned out.
My insides quake. My very bones feel like they’re vibrating.
I squeeze shut my eyes and clutch Rafael as if he’s a lifeline. He really has become a shield against the chaos that’s exploded out of nowhere.
It’s difficult telling time. If five seconds have gone by or five minutes.
Eventually, the crackling gunfire stops. Screams and sirens take its place. The rush of people running in all directions.
Rafael draws back slightly. “You okay?”
I’m shaking, my voice lost. I can only blink dumbly up at him.
He cups my cheek and lets his eyes scan the length of me. Once he’s decided I’m unharmed, he steps out from the stone column we’ve hid behind. His expression has changed, darkening in a way I’ve never seen before.
“Where’d they go?” he shouts at the two men he’s attended the charity dinner with.
I recognize them immediately, even through my daze.
Adagio and Maurizio.
Two men who I’d met in Sicily. One of which Jayla had a fling with.
Both men have their guns drawn and are on high alert. They might as well be the hotel’s official defense against the shooters who opened fire, because everyone else runs and screams in hysterics.
“They got away,” Maurizio answers. “They didn’t hit anyone except for a server.”
“Warning shots,” Rafael says. The muscle in his jaw tightens. “They were sending a message.”
Adagio holsters his handgun and walks up to one of the hall’s tall windows to peer out. “They sprayed a couple bullets, then drove off before anybody could react.”
I hover a few feet away, in the middle of the aftermath. Dinner guests have gathered at one end of hall, scandalized and terrified. Hotel staff have rushed toward the only casualty. Where I’d normally be bursting with curiosity and my investigative streak, I’m still frozen in shock at what’s happened.
I’ve reported on countless shootings. But I’ve never been involved in a shooting myself.
Who were those men and what were they after? Why were they intent on shooting up a dinner for a charity helping underprivileged children? How much more evil could you get?
Rafael’s arm drips with blood.
I see it despite his dark suit. A droplet of blood splatters to the floor and wakes me up from my trance.
“You’ve been shot!” I exclaim, rushing forward. “Rafael, you’re bleeding.”
He’s wholly unconcerned as he glances down at his arm. “It’s a graze. They must’ve clipped me as we dove behind the column.”
“You need medical attention. You need to be checked out.”
He seems on the brink of disputing my claim until he meets my gaze and realizes how shaken I am.
“Alright, alright. Calm down, dolcezza . I’ll let a paramedic look at me.”
The police and paramedics arrive in the next minute. The parking lot of the Plaza fills with flashing lights, emergency responders in uniform and upset dinner guests. The hotel employee who’s been shot is wheeled on a stretcher and placed into an ambulance.
Rafael expects to be treated on the spot.
“Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to ride in an ambulance to the ER,” says one of the paramedics. “We’ll be able to better treat your gunshot wound.”
He stares blankly at the man. “It’s not a gunshot wound. It’s a simple graze. It’s nonthreatening.”
“The wound will be better patched up at the ER. Please get in the ambulance.”
A dismissive chuckle leaves him. “I’ll pass on that invite. I have my own doctors.”
“Rafael,” I moan from his side. “Please, just get in the ambulance and let the ER take a look at it.”
For a second time in a few minutes, Rafael looks at me as if my concern means something. It matters more than his own injury.
“Alright, dolcezza ,” he says, then he grabs my hand. “But you’re coming with me.”
“What? I don’t…”
There’s no use arguing with him on it.
I’ve dug my own grave insisting he goes to the ER.
The next thing I know, he’s climbed into the back of the ambulance and dragged me inside with him. The doors slam shut and we’re off in a whir of flashing sirens.
For the duration of the ride, we sit side by side in silence. So close I can still feel his body heat, but so consumed by the tension and uncertainty between us that I can barely form a thought.
Rafael seems to be satisfied enough that I’m alone with him. He finally has my company even if no words are exchanged.
It’s no surprise that when we arrive at the Newport General emergency room less than ten minutes later, Adagio and Maurizio are already on the scene.
My brows knit as I throw a glance at Rafael. “Do they always go where you go?”
“They’re my private security of sorts.”
I don’t ask any more questions as we leap out of the ambulance and approach the bright artificially lit emergency room.
Rafael insists I come with him to the station where he’ll be worked on.
“She’s my wife,” he lies to the ER nurse. “Newly married.”
My cheeks warm when the nurse smiles at me and says, “Of course. Congratulations. We’ll get you patched up in no time.”
I wait until she’s drawn the curtain around the station and walked away before I shove his good arm. “We’re not married. We’re not dating. We’re not even on cordial terms.”
He winks at me, a slight grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “For now, dolcezza . That will change soon.”
…ugh. Why does he have to be so damn fine all the time?
“What part of never going to happen don’t you understand?” I ask instead.
“You made me come to the hospital.”
“So what?”
“You care more than you say you do,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t want you shot dead. There’s a wide ocean between that and being your wife, Rafael.”
“It’s a thinner line than you think, dolcezza .”
For the moment I let him believe what he wants. The doctor comes in and sews up the wound from the graze skinning the side of his bicep.
“All good,” the doctor says. “You’re lucky, Mr. Calderone. If you had been half a second slower, the bullet could’ve really hit you and done damage.”
“Good thing I’m always a few steps ahead,” Rafael answers. He jumps off the exam table and reaches for his bloodied dress shirt.
I avert my eyes, trying hard to keep from ogling his broad shoulders and sculpted chest that would make most women’s mouths water. It’s a little hard in such a confined space and as memories of our time in Sicily flash through my mind.
Rafael Calderone is attractive. He has dark, gleaming eyes and a strong jawline. He’s fit and muscular and an impeccable dresser.
I’m only human.
My body temperature rises against my wishes.
“Ready to go?” he asks, buttoning up his shirt. “I’ll take you home.”
“No… no thank you. I’ll ride the subway. It’s only a few stops.”
“At this hour? No chance. You’re coming with me.”
It’s not up for debate.
I realize this as Rafael scoops up my hand and leads me out of the station. Adagio and Maurizio are just outside waiting for him. He gives them a nod that seems to communicate a command they understand.
As we step into the cold night, they fall behind us by several paces.
Privacy.
An unplanned smile almost spreads onto my lips. Though the man at my side might drive me crazy—he’s proven that many times over in recent days—I can’t help being endeared by his determination.
Jayla’s advice shifts to the front of my mind.
Maybe hearing his explanation will help clear things up. It could even give you closure.
“Hot chocolate?” Rafael asks suddenly, drawing me back from my thoughts.
We’ve started down the sidewalk outside the hospital, passing by a street vendor. I go to shake my head but the breath I release turns into frost in front of me. I shudder at the chilly air and then cut him a small smile.
“One cup of hot cocoa can’t hurt… I guess…”
It’s a strange twist of events.
The night started off with me dressed to the nines at a million dollar charity dinner and it’s ending with me on the street drinking hot cocoa with a man I’ve sworn off forever.
After we’ve survived a shooting together.
Rafael hands me the paper cup of whipped hot chocolate deliciousness. The heat feels good against my palm as I hold onto the cup and take a cautious sip.
“So,” I say, “you finally have me alone. What did you want that you couldn’t tell me almost two years ago in Sicily?”
Rafael strokes his beard to stave off a laugh. “You are a ball buster, dolcezza . I bet you never let your ex-husband get away with anything.”
…you’d be surprised. That was the problem.
“No explanation? That’s what I thought.”
“It was never my intention to not follow through with our plans. I wanted to see you that night.”
“But…?”
“A situation I couldn’t avoid came up.”
“What kind of situation? You couldn’t call me to let me know?”
“I wish it could’ve been different,” he says vaguely. We’ve wandered halfway down the block, cups of hot cocoa in hand, distantly trailed by his security. Headlights and taillights shine from the passing cars depending which direction they’re headed in on the street.
I wait for more details that feel like they’ll never come.
Rafael drags the rest of his answer out for another second or two.
“If it makes you feel any better, I have thought about you every day since.”
“Sweet but means nothing when you still can’t tell me why,” I say bluntly. “All it sounds like is you got cold feet… or maybe you weren’t really that into me… or maybe the incident with your sheets ruined your interest. All fine if you’d been honest with me.”
“None of that is true.”
“I’ve spent almost two years believing it is. But I get it—you saw two Black American women on vacation and you were attracted. Isn’t there a stereotype Italian men have that American women are easy? I guess your interest makes sense.”
Rafael allows his laugh to break free this time. The sound’s thick and throaty, his handsome face filled with mirth. “Trust me when I say, dolcezza , there is nothing easy about you. In fact, I’d say everything about you is difficult. Everything about you is a challenge. Maybe that’s why I can’t give you up.”
“You… what?”
“I love a challenge.” He stops in the middle of the sidewalk to face me, even more amused by my bewilderment. He leans closer, his gaze intensely set on me. “I love a chase. I love working hard to earn what I want. You’re a woman who doesn’t give in easily. I’m a man who doesn’t give up easily. I will win you over. You can count on that, dolcezza .”
He winks at me before reaching up. I flinch in anticipation, unsure what to expect. His thumb grazes the corner of my lip, catching a dollop of whipped cream from my last sip of hot cocoa. The move is slow, sensuous as the pad of his thumb swipes it away only for him to bring it up to his own mouth.
He licks it up, holding my stunned gaze, sending a sharp shiver down my spine.
“ Hai ancora un sapore così delizioso .”
I’m incapable of speech as he curls an arm around my back and guides me toward the Bentley parked a few feet ahead.
Adagio steps in front and pulls the rear door open for us to slide inside. Maurizio moves to the driver’s side to get behind the wheel.
As if the night couldn’t become any more surreal.
I ride in the back of Rafael Calderone’s luxury car through the twinkling Newport streets like we’ve just enjoyed the dinner date he had originally asked me out on.
In some warped way, we sort of have.
Less than two hours later, I lay in the dark of my bedroom and stare out the window, still in disbelief. Jayla was all over me asking a million questions about the shooting at the Newport Plaza. Mom and Dad left a dozen messages begging to know if I was okay (to which I responded in a brief call).
Even Baron and Finkle reached out tonight to know what had happened.
Yet none of it registers.
The only thing I’m able to think about in the final minutes before I drift off to sleep is Rafael Calderone and the night we spent together.
Unexpected and unplanned but enough to chink my armor.
I swore him off the moment he stood me up and then ghosted me like I never existed. But is it time I get over it and give him another chance?
It’s a question I’m still internally debating when my phone pings with a new text message. At first I almost ignore it, assuming it must be another message from Dad fussing over me or Finkle pressing for more insider details.
I’m wrong on both accounts.
It’s an unknown number texting me a piece of information that I’m immediately grateful for.
Next shipment comes in next wednesday 11pm, east newport station