15. Rafael
15
RAFAEL
“PLEASE!” Lincoln Powell screams, his words muffled by the water drowning him. “PLEASE LET ME GO!”
Maurizio looks up at me for direction.
I stand far enough away from the tank of water to keep my Armani suit dry, the devil mask obscuring my identity, my arms folded behind my back. I was in a business meeting when Adagio called me up and told me they had adducted Lincoln Powell off the street and brought him to the warehouse that doubles as our base of operations.
The pathetic sack of shit squirms like a pig about to be slaughtered as Maurizio grips him by the back of the neck and pushes his head under water, creating the feeling he’s drowning.
I give it another forty seconds, waiting ’til he’s right about to lose consciousness, and then motion for him to let Lincoln up.
Portia’s ex gasps as he’s given air for the first time in a couple minutes. He spits up water, his once wavy hair draped across his forehead, clothes soaked through. He looks pitiful, his blindfold covering his ability to see.
I step toward him. “Have you had enough time to think about what you’ve done?”
“P-Please,” he stammers. “I-I don’t… if… if it’s money for that b-business loan?—”
“This isn’t about a fucking business loan for one of your silly failed startups, Lincoln. This is about how you’ve been inappropriate.”
“Wha… what? I… I never…”
“Give him some more time to think about it. Clearly he hasn’t learned a thing.”
Maurizio is happy to oblige. As Lincoln erupts in a scream of panic, Maurizio snatches him up by his nape and dunks his head back under water. A trail of bubbles burst from his nostrils as he squeezes his eyes shut and jerks violently against Maurizio’s grip.
“Usually they start losing fight by now. He has a lot of energy,” Maurizio says.
“Energy he could use for getting a fucking job instead of harassing his ex-wife,” I snarl, barely restraining myself. “Bring him back up.”
Maurizio yanks him back out of the tank, more water splashing onto the floor. Lincoln coughs up more of it too as his chest hitches and he struggles to breathe. I step back toward him, patience run thin.
“I’m going to keep this simple for you, Lincoln. Are you paying attention?”
He shakes his head vigorously, his bottom lip trembling. “Ye-yes… pl-please… anything.”
I crouch beside him and roughly grab his face, yanking him toward me. “You come anywhere near Portia James again, and next time, it’s not a water tank you’ll be in. It’ll be the ocean, where we dump your dead body to swim with the fishes. You come near her and I will turn you into fish food and chop you up into fucking bits and pieces to feed them. Tell me, Lincoln, tell me you understand. Tell me we’re not going to have any more problems.”
“P-P-Portia?” he stutters like a fucking idiot.
I squeeze his cheeks and make him yelp pitifully. “You heard me!” I growl at him, digging my fingers into his skin. “If you even breathe the air she breathes, I will fucking slaughter you. Stay. Away. From. Her.”
“Ok-ok...ay. OKAY!”
“I’m going to be watching, Lincoln. I’m going to be keeping my eye on you to make sure you keep your word. Don’t let me catch you slipping.”
“OKAY, I SWEAR!”
I stand up, straightening the front of my suit jacket. “Good. Then you get to live. This time. Ice Pick, take him away. Dump him somewhere out of the city. No wallet, no phone, no keys, no nothing. Let him hitchhike his way back to Newport. Bonus lesson for him to learn for all he’s done.”
“Sì, Diavolo.”
Maurizio fists Lincoln Powell’s drenched locks and then dog walks him out of the room, leaving a trail of water in their wake. As they’re leaving the room, Adagio is re-entering with a smirk and arched brow, his blue eyes shining.
“I see it went well.”
“He’s lucky he’s still alive. I only spared him this time because Portia would be suspicious.”
Adagio chuckles. “Her ex-husband dying suddenly after you threaten him? Not suspicious at all.”
“I’m protecting her.”
“Yes, very romantic. Most women would swoon.”
I glare at him. “He scared Portia. He came into her apartment uninvited and was waiting for her to get home. He deserves this and so much more.”
“Say the word and Maurizio and I will help you chop him up,” he volunteers, grinning wide. “It’s what we’re here for.”
“Next time. If he ever slips up again, then he will die. No matter what Portia says.”
* * *
My decision to purchase Newport Metro News had nothing to do with profit. Some would call that a foolish business decision. They would claim no real businessman would purchase a media company for no other reason than a personal endeavor.
But as I sit in my new office at the station headquarters and watch Portia James strut by in her pencil skirt and heels, I beg to differ.
Worth every fucking penny.
I pluck the desk phone off its hook and dial an extension I already have memorized by heart. A few rings later, Portia’s answering her phone only moments after she’s made it back to her desk.
“Hello, Ms. James,” I say, grinning to myself. “How are you doing today?”
The breath she releases tells me a lot. It’s a soft little soughing sound torn between exasperation and amusement.
While my antics might frustrate her, there’s a growing part of her that enjoys these interactions.
“I’m doing well, Mr. Calderone,” she answers. “And yourself?”
“I’m good. But I’ll be even better once you make your way up to my office. I’d like to see you.”
“Reason being?”
“Work matters I’d like to discuss. I’ll be waiting for you.”
I hang up, sitting back in the executive chair and kicking my feet up. The trek from her fourth floor office to the top floor where I’m located only requires a quick elevator ride. No less than a couple minutes later, she’s approaching the glass walls that separate my office from the rest of the floor.
Our gazes meet from afar as she taps gently on the door. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Calderone?”
“Yes, Ms. James. Come in. Close the door.”
I can sense her hesitation as she pauses and then does as I ask. She draws the glass door shut and cautiously heads toward my desk. Her gait is stilted and not at all full of the effortless poise she usually has.
It’s easy to deduce why.
Portia is concerned about optics. She’s sensitive about how interactions between us come across to others at the company. Understandable for a woman who has worked as hard as she has and who deserves everything she’s earned and more.
But also needless because I won’t stand for any judgments. At the first sign, I will crush them out of existence.
I won’t allow anyone to demean her.
I respect her maybe more than anyone else on this earth.
But I also have the intense and profound desire to fuck her every moment she’s in my presence. Worship her beautiful body with my hands, mouth, and dick. Make her feel so fucking good she’s surrendering to me like I’ve fantasized about.
As Portia takes the seat across from me, I’m keenly aware of the heat warming my skin. It creeps up the back of my neck even as I remain composed and calm watching her. If she could feel the things I feel for her, she would never question my motivations again.
She would know why I won’t let her go.
I clear my throat and drop my legs from the desk, folding my hands instead. “I reviewed the report you submitted with your suggestions for the channel.”
Her right brow tics slightly higher. “Oh? And, err, what did you think?”
“I agree with everything you said. I’ll be having a meeting with management to put your plan into place.”
“You’re serious?”
“What have I told you, Ms. James? What will I never do?”
“Lie,” she says, smirking.
“Exactly. Now that that matter’s settled, Metro News will be covering the heavy weight boxing championship tonight between Gatz and Iverson at Newport Square Garden. We need a field reporter to handle the event. Would you like to attend?”
“Me? But what about our sports reporters?—”
“None of them are available,” I say quickly. “And considering you have a handle on sports knowledge, I figured you would be a great substitute.”
“Baron loves sports,” she says. “And he was once a sports reporter for?—”
“I would like you to come. You will be sitting in the VIP section with me and my entourage, of course.”
Her eyes flash in knowing, her long lashes fluttering. She understands exactly what I’m asking.
“Alright,” she answers finally. “If I’ll be there in an official capacity.”
“We’ll have dinner beforehand. I’ve made reservations at the steakhouse Prime. Be ready at five. A car will come to pick you up.”
She bites down on her bottom lip, once again caught between conflicting emotions. But good humor wins out as she rises out of the chair and then allows for a coy little smile. “You really do always find a way, don’t you?”
I wink at her. “I’ll show you a good time, dolcezza . You deserve it.”
* * *
The car arrives as promised.
My chauffeur steps out to open the door for Portia. She looks absolutely gorgeous in a mauve mini dress and sleek blazer. Tasteful but sexy as always.
I can’t keep from admiring her shapely legs and thighs as she slides into the backseat next to me. For a wild second I consider skipping the boxing match altogether to spend the rest of the night kissing every inch of her body.
Then I remember I’m supposed to be a civilized man and push down the urge.
“Evening, dolcezza ,” I say. “Do I need to tell you how gorgeous you are?”
She flushes, her complexion glowing. “You always find a way. You look amazing yourself. No one seems to wear a suit like you do.”
“Careful. Don’t flirt with me too hard. I might get the wrong idea.”
The ice is broken as she finally gives in with a soft laugh.
Tonight we’re riding one of my limousines into downtown Newport.
For the boxing championship, most VIPs make flashy and excessive entrances. They arrive in long stretch limousines or the latest million dollar sports car with their entourage in tow. There will be paparazzi and cameras everywhere.
As one of the most prominent men attending tonight, a big entrance was necessary.
There’s no one else I’d want on my arm than Portia. Though she may not realize she’ll be on my arm.
She’s clinging to the idea that she’s attending the match in an official capacity.
We arrive at Prime for dinner. The steakhouse makes for the perfect dinner date setting. We’re seated at our table by a server who pours us a complimentary glass of wine from tonight’s selection.
Portia ogles the menu like the foodie that she is.
I scratch at the scruff on my jawline and try to hide my grin. “Order yourself a big, juicy steak, Portia. How about this twenty-eight ounce dry-aged porterhouse? That seems fitting.”
“Are you trying to put me in a food coma? I have a job to do.”
We make our selections not long after. Portia goes with the ribeye spinalis with mushroom confit while I end up doing the porterhouse.
“You know, they say how a person orders their steak says a lot about them.”
Her brows quirk out of curiosity as she sips from her wine. “Oh really? What does medium rare say about me?”
“That you have good taste,” I answer. “But that was already apparent by you agreeing to have dinner with me tonight.”
“A work dinner.”
“Right, just like we had a work lunch the other day. And a work after hours at home visit.”
“Would you have preferred I not call you?”
“Trust me, dolcezza , I’m glad you did. I would’ve come no matter the time.”
The candlelight from our table dances in her dark-eyed gaze. “I know you would’ve. Maybe that’s why I called you.”
“Has your ex given you any more problems?”
“I haven’t heard a peep. I’m still not even sure what pushed Lincoln to come by after so long…”
“If he decides to show up again, you know what to do.”
Not that I’m not already handling him in my own way.
“How are you still single?” she asks, cupping her wine glass with her fingers for another taste. “Good looking. Wealthy. Interesting and protective. You really should be off the market. You should have a wife and kids at home. Not be having dinner with me.”
“Except you’re the woman I want to have dinner with,” I answer in a matter of fact tone.
I leave off the second half.
You’re also the only woman I want at home with our kids.
“Aren’t Italians very traditional?” she asks. “I’m surprised you’ve remained an eligible bachelor for so long.”
“We believe in large families. But my circumstance is less than traditional. Besides, we’ve been over this, dolcezza . Once I set my sights on what I like, I won’t settle for anything less.”
The blush can practically be seen heating her mocha brown complexion. Suddenly, she’s even more radiant than usual, like she’s lit from within. She avoids my intent study as if fearful of what she’ll find if she confronts it head on.
It’s true that she senses what I already know.
We’re supposed to be together.
“Are you close with your family?” she asks, seeking distraction.
“I have no family left. No blood relatives that is.”
Surprise causes her eyes to flit up and meet mine. “You’ve lost them all?”
“That’s right. I’m an only child. I never knew my father. My mother passed at a young age. I was raised by my grandmother. She died when I was a young man.”
“What was she like?”
“A hard ass,” I answer to her laugh. “I was the man of the house by the time I was twelve. She held me to that.”
“You grew up in Sicily?”
I nod. “A poor village called Ragusa. Times were hard. We did what we had to to survive.”
“You’re truly a self-made man…”
“You could say that. Every penny I’ve made, I’ve earned. One way or another.”
“And now you’re a billionaire,” she says under her breath. She swallows more wine as if using it as a crutch to process my story. “It’s very impressive how far you’ve come.”
“That’s what most would say.”
“What about your sister, Sofia? Did she grow up in Ragusa as well?”
I hesitate for a second. “Sofia is not my sister by blood.”
“Oh, so like me and Jayla?”
“Something like that. Her father was my mentor and I spent a lot of time with her family. She became like a kid sister to me,” I explain vaguely, then pivot on topics. “How about you? You’ve come far.”
“Rafael—”
“You were orphaned at a young age,” I interrupt. “Your mom gone just like that. No one else but your cousin to rely on. Look at you now.”
“Things might’ve turned out very differently for me—and Jayla—had Mom and Dad not adopted us.”
“Do you ever think about how they’re not your birth parents? You still call them mom and dad… but there’s a difference…”
She thinks for a second and then answers with a nostalgic calmness. “The thing is, they never made us call them Mom and Dad. We didn’t at first. It took a few years for us to think of them that way. To be honest, I lost my birth mom so young, I don’t really know her as my mother. I have very few memories of her.”
“Makes sense.”
Our conversation gravitates away from family, settling on sports. I give Portia hell for being a Newport Titans fan while she laughs at me for rooting for Gatz in tonight’s boxing match.
“All betting markets have Iverson winning at two to one!”
“So he’s the underdog,” I say. “Stranger things have happened, dolcezza.”
“Gatz is not winning.”
“And if he does? What do I get if he wins?” I quiz, waggling my eyebrows.
“You… you want to make a bet?”
“Damn right I do. I could get something out of this. What do I get if Gatz wins?”
She smirks at me from across the table, her dark eyes glittering. “Fine. A kiss.”
“What kind of kiss?”
“On the cheek?—”
“Nope,” I interrupt sharply like this is a real business negotiation. “I deserve more than a peck on the cheek. You’re going to have to do better than that, dolcezza .”
“On the lips. Two seconds. That’s all.”
I laugh at how defiant she is crossing her arms on the table. “Alright, two seconds is long enough for me to change your mind and get more.”
“You think you’re so suave, don’t you?”
“It’s worked already, hasn’t it?”
She can only look away amused and flustered rather than answer. The rest of dinner carries out in flirtatious fashion. Only scraps of steak remain on our plates as we drain our wine glasses and then indulge in some dessert.
We head out to Newport Square Garden already in a playful mood. Portia buries her face in my shirt and rues how she’s supposed to conduct an interview with heavyweight champion Quinard Iverson.
I laugh, stroking her hair, holding her close. “You don’t have to do the interview, dolcezza . Others from the station will be there. Let Strong do it. Isn’t that who you said wanted to do it?”
“But… but this is an opportunity,” she says, peering up at me. “I’d like the experience. I’ve never done sports reporting before.”
I’m less than pleased, though I realize it’s what I told her when inviting her.
We arrive at Newport Square Garden to clicks of dozens of cameras and fanfare from the audience gathered outside the stadium. Security rushes us inside. I keep Portia pinned to my side, my arm possessively slung over her hip. Several times she tries to extricate herself as if worried about what others will think.
One of the event coordinators approaches as soon as we’re through the entrance. He’s a middle-aged man with a headpiece and a severe overbite.
“Mr. Calderone, will you be escorting Ms. James to her interview with heavyweight champ Quinard Iverson? He would love to meet you.”
We’re taken down corridor after corridor until we’re being ushered into what looks like a dressing room. Portia is mic’d up and preened while I stand back with the rest of security to watch. She casts me a nervous smile that I return with an encouraging nod of my head.
Quinard Iverson walks into the room like he’s a beast among men. The boxing champ stands at well over six feet, nothing but oiled up muscle in his shiny gold trunks.
Instinctual possessiveness emerges inside me. I rear slightly closer as Iverson stalks into the room and Portia smiles in a warm hello.
“I’m here with heavyweight champ Quinard Iverson minutes before his big match against contender Stephen Gatz,” Portia says into the camera. She points her microphone toward Iverson. “Quinard, some say you’re one of the best to ever do it. You’ve held onto your title for eighteen months straight. Anything you’d like to say to the fans out there?”
His massive hand swallows hers up as he reaches for the mic. “Just that I’m about to knock the fuck outta Gatz so get ready.”
Portia laughs lightly. “Gatz is an impressive fighter in his own right, but betting markets have you winning at two to one.”
“Should be zero,” he interjects in his heavy baritone. He grips the microphone, his huge hand still covering hers. “How about you, cutie? What’s the odds of me and you?”
Portia’s brows jump and she loses her bearings, the shock overtaking her.
My scowl is immediate, my anger rushing me. Maurizio clamps a hand on my shoulder to keep me from storming into the frame and interrupting the live interview.
It ends no less than a minute later with Portia’s nervous laugh and sign off to the camera.
Iverson and his posse walk out to get ready for the match. Breathing through my temper that’s riled up, I stride toward Portia and rip the microphone from her hands.
“That’s the end of that,” I say. “Strong will do the post-match interview.”
Her brows knit close. “What? Why? I thought it went great?—”
“I don’t like his behavior.”
“Because of what he said at the end?”
“The match is about to start.” I motion with my head, signaling for the two of us and security to head to the other part of the stadium.
Portia’s irritation becomes a palpable energy in the air. She refuses to look at me once we do arrive at our seats, crossing her legs and avoiding my gaze at every opportunity. Any time I try to engage her in conversation, she pretends she can’t hear me. My hand damn sure gets smacked away when I go to palm her knee.
She’s pissed about Iverson.
The boxing match begins with heavyweights Quinard Iverson and Stephen Gatz going toe-to-toe. The two oiled up men throw vicious punches at each other, ducking and diving wherever they can.
Round after round the entire stadium erupts cheers. Some rooting for Gatz. Others supporting the favorite, returning champ Iverson.
From the VIP section, we get the best of both worlds. We’re in the thick of the crowds’ screams while being close enough for the commentators energetic input and the close up of the fighters duking it out.
Round eight, Iverson throws a punch that’s a knockout. His heavy fist collides with Gatz and sends him down to the mat. The referee hovers over him counting to ten but Gatz can’t get back up no matter how hard he tries, collapsing for the last time.
The entire stadium explodes. Iverson throws his arms into the air in victory. His entourage rushes the boxing ring to swallow him up with celebrations. His coaches lift him up on their shoulders and he throws fake jabs in the air and points at the crowd.
It’s a moment that will be replayed on every sports channel for days to come. Heavyweight champ Quinard Iverson has held onto his title yet again.
And then he picks Portia out from the crowd.
He notices her seated front row in the VIP section and his dark brown eyes gleam. He puckers his lips and makes kissy faces at her, winking as he does.
I’ve had enough. I rise from my seat, a stony expression on my face. My gaze is chilling and violent as it meets his from afar and the cameras catch the interaction between us.
“Rafael,” Portia groans, tugging at my arm.
Iverson holds his gloved hands up as if signaling he’ll back off. The audience laughs while the commentators crack jokes about how he’s realized he doesn’t want to piss off prominent billionaire Rafael Calderone.
It’s thought to be a funny moment among the public.
It’s a moment that will likely go viral online.
But I’m serious. If Quinard Iverson is going to be disrespectful to my woman, then he will pay the price. I will have him broken and bleeding in an alleyway by the end of the night. Professional heavyweight champ or not.
“Rafael!” Portia cries out in irritation. She pops to her feet and then strides off.
My blinding temper dissolves to catch the sight of her heels as she disappears among the crowd.
“Handle him,” I say to Maurizio simply.
Two words that are my parting command before I set off after Portia.
It’s not the first time she proves to be unbelievably quick in her heels. She makes it through the corridors in impressive time, striding through until she’s coming up on the exit. I jog after her, catching up as we make it outside.
“What is your problem?” I snap.
“What’s yours?” she shoots back. “What were you doing in there? Threatening a professional boxer? You do realize he was playing, right? Innocent flirting.”
“He knew you were here with me. It’s disrespectful.”
“It’s not! We’re not together, Rafael.”
“Says who? He made a fucking kissy face at you!”
She releases a frustrated growl as she struts across the concrete promenade and I reach for her arm. We’re coming up on my limousine parked by the curb. My hand clamps shut on her elbow and I drag her toward the luxury vehicle to her scream and thrashing protests.
The moment we’re inside and I slam the door shut, she slaps me across the face.
A light sting prickles my cheek.
“Don’t you ever do that again!” she warns, nostrils flaring. Her eyes burn with anger. Her chest heaves for every breath she takes.
You’d think I’d listen. I’d apologize or admit I’ve been overreacting.
But all those turn out to be wrong.
I do what I always do—I do what I want.
I grab Portia James by the throat and drag her mouth to mine.