12. Rafael
12
RAFAEL
“We got them. Care to see their heads?” Maurizio asks.
They’re the first words he speaks when I answer the phone. A split second later, my phone vibrates in my hand as he sends through the photo describing what he speaks of.
Two severed heads of the men who shot up the Newport Plaza the other night. Their bodies must already be disposed of and fed to the strays on the street.
“Excellent,” I say. “They’ve never looked better. Their employer?”
“As suspected. But associates.”
“Explains the amateur job. I don’t believe they even realized who I was when they started shooting. Otherwise, they may have gone for a kill shot. Just for the notoriety.”
“Will there be retaliation?”
Leave it to Maurizio to be so bloodthirsty. He’s one of two right hands I have working for me. The other being Adagio. But while Adagio serves more as a sounding board and confidant, Maurizio functions as my stone cold assassin I can assign any job to. No matter how bloody and gruesome.
“There will be some,” I answer. “Soon. You’ll be first to know.”
I hang up and pocket my phone.
Adagio has walked into my office clutching the two Campari sodas I sent him off to make. He keeps one for himself and hands me the other.
“Heads?” he asks.
“Heads.”
He gives an impressed nod. “I saw ’em. Very clean cut. Maurizio’s other calling might have been a butcher.”
“Exactly why I’ve kept him on my crew.”
“I’ve got news for you too. Some intel from the streets. Do you want the good part or bad part first?”
I sip from my Campari soda and shoot Adagio a chastising look. He knows better than to play these games with me when he has pertinent information.
We’re in the thick of this war with Tuco and on the verge of winning the psychedelic drug we’ve been battling over.
Nectar is the newest party drug that all the club goers and drug fanatics will salivate over.
It’s the modern day version of ambrosia, liquid gold in a tiny glass vial. One taste, and you’ll feel one of the most intense, deeply euphoric highs humanly possible.
I’ve never done a drug in my life and don’t plan on starting anytime soon, but our taste-testers claim the world becomes a kaleidoscope of pleasure beyond comprehension.
It’s like entering some new realm that feels like the furthest thing from reality.
Production takes months and must be done in a strictly temperature-controlled room. The process starts with a rare fungus called Mycophylla Auranta that only grows in certain parts of the country. The fungi has a thick stalk and shallow bowl-shaped cap with fissures that secrete a sap-like golden substance that often glows in the dark.
It can be very delicate and inconsistent if not cultivated properly in the exact right environments, which is why we have to wait ’til after the product is ready for transport.
The mycologists on our payroll extract the thick syrupy substance from the fungi, then our cooks use it and other ingredients to concoct the psychedelic. The liquid is made to look even prettier, packaged up in an appealing manner in the vials, then shipped off to Newport.
Patience and attention to detail are key in the growing, extracting, and cooking phases. Discretion once we’ve reached the transitory stage.
When we first discovered the potential of Mycophylla Auranta, Vito demanded we build the labs right in Newport. He hated that we had to risk shipping the precious cargo across several states, and the fact that it took so long to produce in the first place.
That’s always been his problem—impatience and irrationality.
He caught wind of the fact that the Tucos were developing their own version of Nectar called Honey, and he wanted our product to be out first on the streets and in all the hot clubs.
I’m trying my damnedest to make that happen, but wrenches keep getting thrown in the way.
Adagio gets the hint from my lack of answer to his question and throws himself down in the wingback armchair nearest him.
“The good news is that we’ve got the next shipment coming in. We’ve already got guys for the pickup and transfer.”
“Guys who won’t fuck it up like the last time?”
“I still don’t know how Tuco found out about it,” Adagio says with a begrudging note in his voice. “Which brings me to the bad part—there’s gotta be an insider somewhere in our chain.”
I sip from the Campari soda. “Explain.”
“We’ve got reason to believe somebody’s been talking to the press.”
“How would you know this?”
“Our insider at the NPPD told us that part,” he says. “They’ve been asking too many questions. Some of the things they’ve mentioned are things they’d only know if they had their own insider in our org.”
I hum to his speculation, sitting behind my desk to think. It wouldn’t be the first time we had a traitor in our midst. But I’d thought I’d made myself clear after the last time—traitors meet the most gruesome fate of all.
A fate that would make the Plaza shooters beheadings look like a fun play date. If someone among my ranks has turned coat, to say they’ll suffer is putting it mildly.
“When you say they’re speaking to the press, you mean Metro News, yes?”
Adagio scratches at his mop of golden hair. It’s always made him stand out—his hair being lighter than the typical Sicilian. “That’s where things get complicated. Our insider at the NPPD said Metro News isn’t the only one poking around. The traitor could be speaking to multiple media outlets.”
“Well, I’m purchasing Metro News. That solves that piece of it.”
“You’ll suppress the story?”
“I can do what I want. It’s my outlet. They’ll report what I want to report. Maybe I’ll buy up the other channels too. Rafael Calderone, Newport’s newest media king.”
“And the object of your affection?” Adagio asks, almost grinning.
“Portia…” I trail off for a moment, the ice from my Campari soda rattling against the glass. “She’ll adjust. She’ll be promoted to head reporter for the network. I could even make her news director.”
“Nepotism. She’ll love that.”
“I sense sarcasm, but I wouldn’t be so obvious about it. She doesn’t know how she was promoted from morning news to evening, does she?”
He concedes my point with a nod. “How did your little hot cocoa date go? Maurizio and I got a laugh feeling like chaperones.”
I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
It’s the most time I’ve spent with Portia since Sicily. She was worried enough to accompany me to the ER and then allowed me to walk her a few blocks as we sipped on hot chocolate. Small and insignificant to some, but monumental for a man as obsessed as I am.
Notes of her perfume lingered in the night air.
Florals like roses and jasmine. Musky hints like sandalwood.
Her scent is one that’s lived on despite her absence. A scent I’ve smelled so many times in memories, but the other night as I walked her, it was real again.
It was as potent and evocative as ever.
The city lights shone in her dark eyes. Curiosity swam in them as she’d turned to face me and asked me to explain what happened.
I’d wanted to tell her. She’s owed the truth, yet I never could do it. For her best interest, she needs to remain in the dark about that time.
“She asked to know about Sicily,” I muse aloud. I’ve finished the Campari soda and resort to chewing on the jagged pieces of ice.
Adagio’s close to draining his glass too. He looks unsurprised by my revelation. “Of course she would. Women always want to know things like that. Where were you? Who were you talking to? What were you doing? They are little detectives whether they realize it or not. Which is why I stay single.”
“You slept with her sister,” I point out.
He grins. “We had fun. But it was a fling. We both went in knowing that. It’s different for you—you are obsessed with her.”
“I didn’t tell her. I couldn’t.”
“Why don’t you?”
“You know why I can’t,” I say. “It’s best she never knows. She might hate me more if she did.”
Adagio tips his head back as he empties every last drop of the liquored soda on his tongue. Standing up from the armchair, he gives a shrug. “Maybe you need to be like me. Be with women for fun and that’s all. It gets tricky when feelings are involved.”
* * *
I’m in the back of my town car stuck in Newport City traffic when Consigliere Anthony Citti calls. Though I might run things in Newport where the Bellucci name is concerned, I’m not too arrogant to recognize when those higher up in the family are reaching out.
“Anthony, it’s been a while,” I say as a hello. I don’t need to see the porky older man to know he’s puffing on a cigar.
He more often than not has one smoldering. Except for when he’s eating, sleeping, and showering, he’s enjoying a nice Italian Toscano Antico cigar.
“Rafael, it’s good you answered. I was hoping you would. How is Newport treating you?”
I glance out the car window at the congested traffic. “Do you hear those honking horns? There’s nothing like downtown traffic.”
He croaks out a laugh. “I remember all too well. When will you be back to Catania to visit? Many in the family are asking about you.”
“You know better than to ask that as we near the end of the year. I prefer warmer weather when I go.”
“ Ovviamente .”
“To what do I owe the honor, Smoky?”
“You can imagine how closely the Don looks at our operations. He’s been hearing things about the Tucos in Newport. He wanted to make sure you could handle it.”
“What would make him believe otherwise?”
“Rafael, figlio , we have always been impressed by your success. You have outdone yourself and surpassed what we thought,” he boasts among the sizzling hiss from his cigar. “But you come from simple beginnings. You were raised differently. You do not have the lifestyle in your blood the way others do. We are concerned missteps could be made.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I grit my teeth and urge myself to remain calm.
Collected.
It’s what’s gotten me as far as I have.
I’m smarter than they are. Better than they are. Even if they don’t see it.
They believe they can use me as some Manchurian candidate. A marionette while they pull the strings from behind the scenes. I play the part of Il Diavolo to the masses and they reap the fruit of my labor, wielding all the power.
But Anthony’s wrong. The whole family is wrong.
After all these years, they still don’t know who they’re dealing with.
“Smoky Tony, isn’t that what they used to call you?” I ask, forcing a humorous tone. “The story of you burning down Don Vito’s villa when you were a caporegime is infamous. And very amusing. Some would say a misstep that only a simpleton could make. But we all know you are much more than that.”
He takes my joke in stride, cackling at the story that’s become a legend in our circles. “Yes, cazzo , that was a very big misstep that I paid for. So who better to listen to than me? Save yourself the trouble.”
“I appreciate the concern. But rest assured nothing will burn down while I’m overseeing the affairs here. I have everything under control. The Bellucci empire has re-entered its golden age.”
“The Don may need more than reassurances to believe it, Rafael.”
“The Don is more than welcome to visit his old stomping grounds himself.”
Our conversation ends with me bidding Anthony goodbye, reminding him I have important business to tend to that goes beyond the Bellucci name. I have an empire in my own right. A self-made force to be reckoned with known as Rafael Calderone, one of the most successful businessmen in the world.
As consigliere, Anthony’s often Don Vito’s mouthpiece, and while I respect my elders, there’s always been a bitter thread between us. He wanted his son Anthony Jr. to be the Don’s representation in Newport. Others wanted Vito’s nephew Vincenzo.
I was chosen above the rest.
Some kid from the slums.
Some pick pocketer who came from nothing but sticks and dirt.
It kills them a little bit on the inside every time I come out on top. I defy the odds and succeed.
Anthony and the others can throw my simple beginnings in my face all they want to; they can remind me how I don’t have the cosa nostra running through my blood like they do.
But I will make sure to show them it no longer matters.
Il Diavolo or Rafael Calderone, it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.
I and I alone am the cosa nostra now.
My driver finally maneuvers through Newport traffic and pulls up outside the Metro News Headquarters.
I stroll through the building to many curious looks and mutters from employees. Everybody’s aware I’m the new owner and for me to be casually wandering the building it must mean something. I could be here for mass layoffs or some other big announcement.
The elevator doors part to take me up to the fourth floor. The same floor where the evening news crew is situated.
You could say I’ve intentionally come up to this floor. I prefer to think of it more as a tour that happens to wind up where the woman whose been on my mind works.
I slow up as I make it through the glass doors and find a chaotic newsroom. Desk phones ring off the hook and script writers scurry about from their cubicle to the printers clutching sheets of paper. In the middle of the maze stands none other than the woman I was hoping to find.
Portia’s engrossed in what looks like a contentious conversation with her producer, Baron Strong. A former reporter himself, he’s holding up his hands like he’s wiped himself of any culpability for whatever they’re talking about.
“You can’t do this!” Portia says, frustration blooming in her voice. “You know I refuse to be restricted on what I report.”
“Management has spoken. They don’t want you touching this with a ten foot pole. Not ’til the police investigation’s done.”
“You mean once the corrupt NPPD closes the case with little to no findings?”
I slip my hands into my pants pockets and tilt my head listening to both sides of the argument.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what case they’re discussing—or what Portia’s after.
“You are the reason why they flaunt their crimes out in the open,” she goes on passionately. “Why would the Tucos and Belluccis even be afraid when they know the police and the media and just about every other damn institution in this city will roll right over and play dead!”
“Watch your tone, James.”
“You watch your step, Strong!” she shoots right back, wagging a finger at him. “I’m not backing down! Even if I have to go the indie route and do this all on my own.”
“You’ll be unemployed.”
“I don’t give a fuck!”
Several of the others in the newsroom gasp overhearing the heated debate. Then their eyes double in size once they realize who else is in the room.
Me.
Their faces all pale and they go still like they’ve seen a ghost.
The same happens to Baron the second he notices what everyone else has. He forgets about his argument with Portia and hangs his mouth open like a fish about to be gutted.
Portia’s last to notice. She’s so fired up that it takes her a second to stop fuming enough to turn around and see me.
The anger vanishes from her face, though her fists remain clenched at her sides.
“Mr. Calderone,” Baron says, clearing his throat. He steps forward for a handshake. “Welcome to our newsroom. I’m sorry you had to hear that. I was just making sure Ms. James understood orders.”
I don’t shake his hand. Mine remain deep inside my pants pockets as I look past Baron and meet Portia’s gaze. “Ms. James is the best investigative reporter at this channel. She should be able to report on whatever she feels is pertinent to the public.”
“B-b-but,” he stammers. “Management has said?—”
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, Mr. Strong. But I’m management now. This station belongs to me. You’ll do as I say.” I step past him and toward Portia, stopping in front of her. The rest of the newsroom is pin drop silent, everyone waiting on bated breath. “Ms. James, would you like to join me for lunch? I would like to hear your ideas for how to improve the network.”
Portia’s so stupefied by the turn of events that she gives a slow nod of her head. “Uh… sure. Let me… I’ll grab my purse.”
A cocky grin comes to my face as I glance at a perplexed Baron. “Excellent. It’s time someone saves this channel.”