13. Portia
13
PORTIA
Rafael tucks my chair into the table at the restaurant like it’s nothing. As if moments ago he didn’t essentially give a verbal bitch slap to my producer in front of the entire evening news department.
He walks around the table to claim his seat, running a hand over his tie. He’s brought us to Palate, a trendy restaurant on the upper west side of the city known for its celebrity and influencer clientele and artistic, if not a little small, plates of food.
I can hardly concentrate as the female server waltzes over with a flirty smile and pours us sparkling water. She stares at only Rafael as she speaks, ignoring my existence altogether. I’d care if I weren’t still thinking about what happened at the station.
“We’re fine for now, thank you,” he says dismissively to the server.
Her face dims but she nods and murmurs something about returning in a few minutes.
Rafael raises a brow at me. “Everything okay, dolcezza ? If this restaurant’s not up to your tastes, we can go elsewhere.”
“Twenty-seven dollars for a beet salad. And that’s an appetizer.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “In case it were not obvious, lunch is my treat.”
I hadn’t wondered. Rafael is the opposite of Lincoln in that way. With Lincoln, I not only had to carry the emotional load of our relationship, but the financial load as well.
But it doesn’t change the fact that it feels awkward accepting anything from Rafael. Even a lunch.
I focus on the glass of sparkling water in front of me, taking a sip. “You didn’t have to interfere at the station.”
“Why wouldn’t I interfere? You were right.”
“Agreeing with me won’t win you any points.”
“ Dolcezza , how many times do I have to tell you I’m a man who tells no lies? When I say I agree with you, I mean it. Baron Strong may be great as a field producer, but he’s a bootlicker. He’s perfectly willing to go along with the status quo even if it’s wrong.”
I’m thrown by how accurate his assessment is.
Baron has been a great producer to work with in some regards. When we do roll out in the field we make for pretty good partners. His producing skills and my reporting skills blend well, but Rafael’s right that Baron’s always seeking to follow the rules. He’s always kissing ass of the higher ups, even if it’s detrimental to our integrity as journalists.
Brows knitted, I say, “He frustrates me sometimes. He’s had my back before, but there’s other times like today where he’s so determined to play it safe it drives me crazy. He wants me to drop my investigation into the Bellucci and Tuco crime families.”
“Is that right?” Rafael asks calmly. “Why would that be?”
“Captain Poveri—or someone from the NPPD—called Finkle on me. They feel I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. So Finkle went to Baron.”
“And Baron went to you.”
I sigh. “I’m not telling you this because I want you to do anything about it. In fact… please don’t. I don’t want any perceived special treatment. Even this lunch feels like that.”
“Why?” He picks up his glass of sparkling water, wholly unconcerned by the possibility. “I am the new owner. This is a work lunch.”
“Because I’ve worked hard to get where I am today. It’s taken me years . I’m the first primetime Black female news reporter in Newport City. The first ever for Newport Metro News. I’d prefer to keep any questions about my qualifications out of the equation… and that tends to happen when special treatment is perceived.”
“That kind of speculation won’t be allowed,” he says plainly. “You’re the best reporter the station has. Anyone who tries to say differently is jealous or stupid—perhaps both—and considering I do not employ jealous or stupid people, their time with Metro News will come to an end.”
The server returns to take our orders.
I’m still processing how matter-of-fact Rafael’s addressed my concerns. He hands both of our menus to the server and says, “We’ll have the rack of lamb with the herbed parmesan polenta. Another bottle of Acqua Frizzante as well. Thank you.”
I wait until the server is gone before a stunned laugh leaves me. Rafael cants his head to the side.
“What’s so funny, dolcezza ?”
“Nothing about you makes sense to me,” I say slowly. “I’m still so confused about…”
“Yes?”
…what you want with me.
“Why have you reappeared now? Why not then when I gave you a chance?”
“Circumstances changed. It was out of my hands then. But it’s in my hands now and I intend on changing your mind.” He raises his glass of sparkling water as if making a toast, some kind of vow, to affirm what he’s said.
I almost smirk and follow his lead, picking up my glass for our toast.
I don’t tell him… but he already has.
* * *
“Finkle! There you are,” I say, rushing toward him. Other employees at the station scurry past me in the hallway, headed off to fulfill some kind of rapidly approaching deadline.
Finkle looks no less frazzled, clutching a clipboard he’s reading from. He looks up at the sound of his name, his eyes widening behind his Harry Potter-like glasses.
“You called me up here?” I ask. “What do you want?”
“It wasn’t me,” he replies. “It was the boss . He wants to see you.”
Finkle steps aside to reveal a double door he’s been standing in front of this entire time. A frown inches onto my face as I step forward and reach for the door handles. I’m not even sure what’s going on or who this boss is, but I walk through the doors and then jump as they promptly swing shut behind me.
I’m in a huge office. The back wall consists of floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Newport City.
At the far opposite side of the room is an executive-sized desk and leather chair. The chair’s turned toward the window, whoever’s occupying it admiring the view of his office.
I give an uncertain clear of my throat. “I was told you wanted to see me… sir?”
“Ms. James, yes. Come here please.”
I draw in a breath and then pad closer, stopping a few feet before I reach his desk. He still hasn’t turned around to face me.
“Are you aware why I called you in here today?”
“Finkle didn’t… I mean… no, not really. I wasn’t told why.”
“I’m sure you can figure it out.”
I rack my brain for any potential answers, though I come up short. It feels next to impossible to think straight. I’m not even sure if I can remember what I was doing before I ran into Finkle in the hall…
“Close your eyes.”
Such a short, simple command that I find I can’t disobey.
My eyes close and I stand still as I listen to the sound of his movements. He’s risen up from the chair. His footsteps thud slowly as he walks around his large desk to make it to me. I can feel him coming up from behind.
His larger body framed over my shorter, smaller one.
He bows his head so that his lips graze my ear. The slightest contact between him and me that makes me shudder.
“ Dolcezza , it’s time. Time that you admit the truth.”
“Wha… I don’t know… OH!” I cry out as he grips my throat from behind, tilting my head to the side for his mouth to devour.
He plants hot kisses along the arc of my throat. One after another until he’s traveled up to my jaw and his teeth nip at me like an animal would.
A love bite that’s feral and needy and makes lust pool inside me.
He holds me against him, my back to his front, and takes his time marking his territory.
Me.
His other hand travels low ’til he’s cupping my sex. ’Til his fingers find my clit through the satin fabric of my panties and he’s rubbing away.
I’m not even sure where my clothes have gone… or why I’ve come into his office in nothing more than my bra and panties.
Yet I don’t give a single fuck as he rubs my clit and I feel how wet I am.
“The truth is, you want to be mine,” he growls into my ear, tugging at the soft flesh with his teeth. “You love to play hard to get, but guess what, dolcezza ? I love a chase.”
My loudest moan yet leaves me as my throbbing clit can stand no more and a sudden orgasm hits.
I twist and turn, the pleasure pouring over me all at once.
It’s as my body thrashes that my eyes pop open and everything changes.
The office with the floor-to-ceiling window disappears. The grip my ‘boss’ has on me vanishes. I go from standing in my bra and panties being kissed and groped to lying in my bed in a hot sweat.
I spring up and realize I’m soaked.
There’s a wet patch in my panties from the very fake, very erotic dream I just had.
A dream that was clearly about Rafael. Even if I never set eyes on who my boss was, his smooth, husky voice tells me all I need to know.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Now I’m dreaming about him. What a huge ego boost for him.”
Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I check the time and decide to slide out of bed and take a quick shower.
It’s not even midnight yet but Jayla’s bedroom door is shut and there’s no light peeking out from the crevice at the bottom. She must’ve gone to sleep early because she has to open the salon tomorrow morning.
I creep from my bedroom to the bathroom in the hall for my shower.
The heat and steam and sweet-smelling body wash does nothing to clear my mind of Rafael. Neither does the fresh pair of panties I change into. I emerge from the bathroom with thoughts of how the dream had felt so real.
His grip on me. His fingers on my clit. The words he’d growled into my ear.
The pleasure that quickly rose up inside me.
“That was real,” I whisper to myself. “Self-inflicted… but real.”
I’m wide-awake returning to my bedroom. But I refuse to spend any more time lusting after Rafael and remembering how natural our bed chemistry was. Instead, I do what I always do at times like this when I can’t sleep—I throw myself into my work.
Baron may want me to stop investigating the Belluccis and Tucos, but I refuse .
Propping open my laptop, I set to work doing some digging. Any clues or info I can unearth that will help me break the story. Draw a solid connection between the shootout at the meat-packing factory and the city’s biggest crime families.
“I’m coming for you,” I say, tapping away at my keyboard. “Your days are numbered, Diavolo.”
* * *
Wednesday at 11 p.m. comes and goes.
Benji Sigler’s tip about the shipment turns out to be wrong. I’m waiting in the area when the hour passes and no freight train arrives. I glance down at the clock on the home screen of my phone and then quickly type up a text message.
It shows as sent to the number Benji’s been using.
The shipment you said would come hasn’t arrived.
Yet I never hear back. As midnight nears and the few stragglers in the area leave the station, so do I.
It was risky enough coming out this late to a bad neighborhood in the city. For the scoop I was willing to take the risk, but it seems I’ve either been lied to or there’s been a change Benji hasn’t alerted me about.
The next morning when I reach out a second time, I still receive no response. It’s a trend that carries on in the coming days as Benji seems intent on ignoring all contact.
“Really, Sigler?” I mutter under my breath. “You think you can ghost me? I don’t think so.”
I’ve had insiders try this before.
They’ll bait you with info they claim to have and then pull a switch when it really matters. The trick is to plan ahead and have the means to track them down once they attempt to hide.
Unfortunately for Benji Sigler, I’m a damn good journalist.
He won’t be disappearing into the ether without an explanation… at least not yet.
I turn up outside a popular nightclub called U4EA.
During the day, without the thumping dance music and strobe lights, it doesn’t feel nearly as exclusive. I waltz in through the front door, glancing around like I’m lost on my way. A man notices me at once from behind the counter.
“How’d you get in here?” he asks. “We’re closed!”
“I’d like a drink if at all possible.”
“Lady, did you just hear me? I said we’re closed!”
“A hundred for one drink.” I retrieve the Benjamin Franklin from inside my shoulder purse and flash the bill enticingly in front of him. “Easiest hundred dollars you’ve probably made in your life, right?”
He thinks on it for a second, then rolls his eyes. “Five minutes. Then you’re getting your ass outta here. If my manager knew I was serving somebody when we were closed…”
I sidle up to the bar counter and slide onto one of the stools, putting on my best and most flirtatious smile. Nudging the hundred dollar bill across the counter, I say, “Can I have a vodka spritzer, please?”
“Coming right up.”
I drum my fingernails against the bar counter, watching as he sets to work on my drink. He grabs a bottle of vodka off the shelf and then reaches for the cranberry juice.
“Here ya go.”
I accept the cool beverage without taking a sip. I’m more focused on the info I need.
“Maybe you can help me. For another Benjamin…”
“Lady…” His gaze drops to the counter as I slide a second hundred dollar bill toward him. “What is it? Quickly.”
“I’m looking for someone. His name’s Benjamin Sigler. Know him?”
“Yeah, yeah… he works here… or worked here,” answers the bartender. “Heard he fell into some trouble.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
No less than ten minutes later, I’m riding the subway toward the address the bartender gave me as Sigler’s residence. I pound on the door of the studio apartment to no luck. Either Benji Sigler’s moved or he’s not home.
I sigh, deciding to return at another time.
The sun is setting when I finally make it back to Crosby where I live with Jayla. Some use of my day off from work, but I’ll just have to continue my investigation the next time I have the chance. I shoot off a text to Jayla asking her what she wants to have for dinner.
She’s yet to answer as I come up on the third floor where our apartment’s located.
I stop dead in my tracks, my stomach flipping like I’m about to fall.
The door to our apartment hangs open.