14. Rafael
14
RAFAEL
“Always such a pleasure having drinks with you, Rafael,” says Archibald Warner. The liver-spotted man winks at me, raising his drink in solidarity.
I’m seated in the armchair across from him nursing my own drink. We’re at the tail end of our impromptu business meeting.
Archibald is one of the biggest financial juggernauts in the city, running the global investment bank W&M. He’s made billions while the average citizen in Newport makes pennies.
Not my favorite person in the world, but he’s often a necessary evil when doing business in the city (and the rest of the world, for that matter).
He has no clue I’m familiar with him and W&M in more ways than one.
Most of my business dealings as Rafael Calderone are entirely separate from my dealings as Il Diavolo.
The same millionaires and billionaires who highly respect Rafael Calderone deeply fear Il Diavolo and the Bellucci family.
How I prefer things.
“Well, I better be on my way,” Archibald says, setting down his glass. “We’ll have to do this again sometime. My turf next time.”
He laughs at his own quip. I merely grin and wait for my security to show him out. The second he’s gone, I’m pivoting for my desk and opening the top drawer.
The devil mask waits inside, my alter ego calling to me.
I put him on and inhale a deep breath as if my palate is being cleansed.
As if Rafael Calderone is the character I play, not Il Diavolo.
Il Diavolo is who I truly am at my core. Il Diavolo is who I was truly born to be.
Il diavolo ha molte forme.
Mamma’s words ring true even so many years later. I step toward the fireplace in the room and pull on the lion head book end.
The fireplace slides to the side and reveals an entryway that leads to a dungeon few get to visit. Even fewer make it out alive.
“JESUS CHRIST HAVE MERCY… PLEASE… GOD NO… GOD NO… NO… NO!”
The screams echo from the end of the tunnel and only grow louder the closer I make it.
I stroll into the dungeon with my mask on and hands in my pockets to the gruesome scene before me.
Benjamin Sigler’s strapped down to the same kind of chair you’d find in any dentist office. His mouth’s propped open by a metal device, revealing the nightmarish state of his teeth… or what were once his teeth.
They’ve been crushed into pieces on the floor.
Adagio and Maurizio are on either side, each with a pair of pliers and an apron to keep the blood off their designer suits.
“Diavolo,” Maurizio says with a nod of his head. “He refuses to talk. We’ve been taking a tooth for every question he hasn’t answered.”
“We’re quickly running out,” adds Adagio. “Next is the tongue. What do you think?”
“NO… NO-NO-NO!” Sigler screams in horror. “PLEASE JESUS CHRIST!”
I step closer and peer down at the pitiful sack squirming in the chair. “If you want to save that tongue, then it sounds like you better start talking. We know it was you, Benji.”
“You killed my brother, you piece of shit!” he shrieks, a sudden fight about him. He spits at my face, landing a loogie on the mask.
Adagio and Maurizio immediately stick the pliers in his mouth. The metal devices clamp down on his tongue as they go to wrench it right out.
I hold up my hand to stop them. Yanking the handkerchief from the welt pocket of my suit jacket, I calmly wipe at my devil’s mask.
Scum like Sigler can’t faze me. I’ve dealt with worse in my time.
I’m far too disciplined to allow temper tantrums like his to anger me.
“Benjamin Sigler, you proved what I already suspected,” I say. “Your bloodline is tainted. The first sign was your pathetic, lying, treacherous brother being a turncoat for a few extra dollars. No man of honor would ever do such a thing. Which is why he got what was coming to him.”
“My brother did what he had to do!” Benji screeches, blood and spittle flying from his mouth. “He wanted to be paid his worth. Tuco was willing to do that!”
“Weak men make foolish decisions chasing money. Wise men know how to make money. That’s the difference, coglione .”
“The reporter! I’ll tell you who it is!”
It’s a last ditch effort on his part as he jerks against his restraints in the chair. His eyes bounce wildly from me to Adagio to Maurizio in search of some mercy. For one of us to give him credit for his last-minute concession.
“My phone!” he says. “Her number’s saved there! If… if you spare me… I’ll lead you to her! She’s the one you want!”
“Give me.”
I hold out my hand.
For a split second, hope shines on Benjamin Sigler’s face. He misunderstands, believing I’m asking for his phone.
But he’s wrong.
I’m asking for the pliers in Maurizio’s hands. He passes them over and I’m the one stepping forward to jam the pair into Sigler’s mouth.
His screams bounce off the walls for minutes to come.
The amount of blood borders on preposterous. It gets everywhere .
His tongue refuses to come out. We eventually settle on a pair of industrial shears that cut it right out and send it flopping to the floor.
Sigler squeals like a pig, his body wild in the chair.
I kick the tongue halfway across the room like it’s a soccer ball, amused by how it leaves a trail of bloody slime wherever it goes.
“Diavolo, your phone,” Adagio says.
I’ve been having so much fun it hasn’t registered that my phone’s been ringing from my pocket.
“Finish him,” I order, withdrawing the device and glancing down at the screen.
My insides twist into knots.
I recognize the number immediately. I answer before the next ring can finish.
“Portia?” I say, flipping on a dime. I’m no longer Diavolo despite the mask. I’m Rafael again, listening to the panicked breath she lets out on the other end of the phone. “Portia, what’s wrong?”
“Rafael, I’m… I’m so sorry to call you,” she gasps between words. “I wouldn’t have… but… but my apartment… no one else has answered… and I… I’m not sure…”
“Not sure about what? Find somewhere safe and I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I rip off my devil’s mask and press the mute button for final orders to the other two. “Finish him off and meet me at Portia’s apartment. Something’s going down.”
“Diavolo, are we going to talk about how she’s the one Sigler was snitching to?” Adagio raises a brow, asking the obvious question out of this situation.
“Later. Do as I say.”
I’m gone in the next second, rushing out of the room to make it to Portia.
* * *
If there was ever a record for fastest travel time between Wall Street to the Crosby neighborhood, I would hold it. It’s no more than eleven minutes later that the tires on my Bentley screech as I slam on the brakes.
Portia’s waiting outside her building, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Relief flits across her face at the sight of me and she rushes over.
“Rafael, I’m so sorry to call, but Jayla must be busy with a client and the police said they can’t come out unless there’s a crime! Breaking and entering apparently isn’t enough.”
I clench my jaw. “Someone’s inside your apartment?”
“The door was open and… I mean I… I didn’t go inside.”
“It’s good you didn’t. Somebody could be waiting in there hoping you would. I’ll check it out.”
“Are you… are you sure?”
Her eyes are round with worry, her posture so stiff and unnatural. She’s terrified.
I squeeze her shoulder and say, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”
I stride into her building like I own the place. It’s how I enter most buildings, Rafael Calderone the billionaire who isn’t fazed by anything. He’s calm, cool, and collected no matter the situation.
That includes potential home invasions.
I’m strapped and if need be, I can become Diavolo in the blink of an eye. I will if it comes down to it.
Portia’s practically my shadow, following half a pace behind me. She’s curious yet still spooked by the situation.
We make it to the apartment that’s hers on the third floor.
Apartment 302.
The door hangs open, the inside engulfed by ominous shadows.
I step through the doorway and extend my hand to the nearest wall for a light switch. The light comes on, chasing away the shadows and revealing almost instantly who the culprit is.
The man’s passed out on the couch.
I’m on him in two quick strides, wrenching him up by the front of his shirt.
“Get up you piece of shit,” I growl, drawing back my fist. “What are you doing in here? You thought you’d break into some woman’s apartment?”
“Wait… don’t hit him!” Portia calls out. Her fear has dissolved for shock, her blinks long and slow. “That’s my ex-husband. Lincoln, what the hell are you doing here? How did you get in my apartment?”
After another second peering down at him, I recognize him too. This is her ex-husband, only more disheveled than ever.
The guy’s a groggy mess. He rubs at his eyes, then covers my hands with his. “Mind letting me go, buddy? You hit me, I sue you.”
I grit my teeth. “I welcome the lawsuit.”
“Please don’t!” interrupts Portia, speaking to either or both of us at once. “Lincoln, you have no right being in my apartment!”
“You’re my ex-wife.”
“Ex being the operative word!”
“Your landlord let me in. I told her you had my things.”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You mean the opposite of the truth? You had my things.”
“Not true. You took them when you moved out. And gave up on our marriage.”
“I gave up on our marriage because you refused to do better!”
He rolls his eyes. “More like you never believed in me. You never helped me with my startup.”
“Which one? All of them have failed!”
“But not this latest one,” he says avidly. “That’s what I came to talk to you about. I just need a few thousand to get it off the ground?—”
“This isn’t happening right now,” Portia mumbles, covering her face with her hands. “Get out!”
“You heard the lady. Get the fuck out.”
“Buddy, I told you about touching me!”
I’ve half dragged him toward the door—where outside I’ll do so much more—before he wrenches himself free and stumbles to the ground.
Lincoln Powell is exactly as I imagined him from the pictures I’ve seen. He’s got a head of wavy hair he’s let grow past ear-length and wrinkles in his clothes and glasses that are large and self-important sit on his face.
Portia deserves so much better.
It enrages me to know she chose him. That a sorry excuse for a man had a woman like her.
He’s lucky I don’t beat him to a pulp on the spot. I would if Portia were nowhere around or if I weren’t certain it would turn me into the enemy.
“Lincoln, this better be the last time you ever come by my place. The next time I’m getting a restraining order. Are we clear?” she asks, hands on her hips. Her usual spark has returned, kindling back to life.
He glares at me. “Who’s this douche? You replace me with him?”
“None of your business. We’ve been divorced for almost two years now.”
“You’ve got five seconds to get out of my sight,” I warn calmly. “Otherwise, I’m going to break your nose. Among other things.”
My threat does its job.
Her ex-husband bolts toward the door so fast he’s practically a blur. He pauses for only half a second crossing the threshold to look back at Portia. “I’ll remember this the next time you need me.”
“That’s where your wrong—you’ve never been there when I needed you!” she calls back. She strides over to the door and slams it shut. Anger bubbles up inside her to such an extent she trembles on the spot and releases a frustrated growl. “I really can’t believe him! The fucking nerve to show up after all this time. To come into my apartment. And for money!”
“He’s dangerous. How many times has he done this?”
“It’s been a while. I thought he had learned his lesson.”
The fact that her ex-husband has dropped by like this before makes the blood in my veins boil. It takes considerable effort for me to remain composed and not erupt in blind anger, wrenching the door open to go after him.
With violent results.
“You need to move,” I say instead.
She scoffs as if I’ve told a joke. “Jayla and I will get right on that.”
“I’m serious. He knows where you live and clearly has no problem coming by. You say he’s done this before. I can make a few phone calls and?—”
“You’ve done enough, Rafael. Seriously, thank you.”
Her face softens as she steps toward me and raises on tiptoe. She places a kiss on the edge of my jaw before rearing back.
But it’s too late—I bow my head and capture her lips in a full mouth kiss.
Her hands shoot up to my chest in surprise, though she doesn’t push me away. Her lips press against mine, so sweet and supple. Naturally parted so that I trap her bottom lip between mine and lightly suck.
It’s just the kind of teasing play that gets a woman like Portia James going.
The slow seduction and hot passion.
My hand caressing its way up the length of her spine and drawing a shudder out of her. The boldness with which I kiss her, like I’m laying claim. I’m taking charge and making it known how crazy she makes me.
For a woman who has always stood on her own—even in her marriage—it melts her defenses.
It has her releasing a moan as I kiss her lips and then massage her tongue with mine.
When we part ways, she’s half dazed and breathless. I cup her chin and run my thumb along the same bottom lip I’ve just stopped teasing.
“If you won’t move, I’m having the locks changed,” I say. “And I’m speaking to your landlord. This will never happen again, but if it does—if he ever comes near you, I want to hear about it.”
She gives a nod, blinking out of her stupor.
I drop one last kiss on her lips as a goodbye.
Adagio and Maurizio are waiting outside the apartment building. I fall into step with them on our walk toward our cars.
“Find Lincoln Powell,” I say, flattening my hand over my tie. “I want the piece of shit brought to me.”