23. Portia
23
PORTIA
Rafael Calderone was born to Verona, the son of a young seamstress in the humble Italian village Ragusa. His birth father was never in the picture. He was still a boy when she died under mysterious circumstances. Into early adulthood he was taken care of by his grandmother Ornella, Verona’s mother, who also happened to be a seamstress.
Ornella was no better off than her daughter had been. Every day was a struggle for the basics like food and shelter.
All details I’m able to dig up using the basic investigative tools at my fingertips.
But it proves virtually impossible finding out more about Rafael Calderone’s life. Other than the basic bare-bones type of info he’s already told me through our conversations, I’m not able to find much else.
Ornella Calderone passed away when Rafael was twenty-two. The last of his known blood relatives.
His father’s identity remains a mystery. Something tells me Rafael considers him as good as dead since he was never a part of his life anyway.
But all records on Rafael’s upbringing seem to disappear after the age of seventeen. Other than the death record for his grandmother, I can’t find anything else. No record he ever finished school. No proof he ever went on to a university. Not even any social media footprints left by a young Rafael, who would’ve been coming up during the early days of Myspace and Facebook.
It’s like Rafael was a poor, disenfranchised boy and then disappeared for many years only to re-emerge as an extremely successful and prominent businessman.
The first article I can find ever written about him dates back to 2013. It’s an Italian business outlet that penned a lengthy feature fawning over Sicily’s up-and-coming financial genius.
Il Nuovo Re Degli Affari: L’ascesa Di Rafael Calderone
I click on the article and let it load on my laptop screen. The translation feature pops up in the corner of my screen and asks if I’d like the text translated to English.
But reading the article word for word in English doesn’t give me any info I wasn’t already aware of.
The article’s a puff piece. A glowing appraisal of Rafael’s investments and his skyrocketing wealth over the past two years.
Digging some more, I find other articles just like it. Initially, from Italian outlets and then soon internationally. Only a few years later did the Newport Journal do an article on Rafael, who, at the time, was expanding his ventures to the States.
“There’s got to be more,” I whisper under my breath. I click around on the search results, frustration boiling over. “Where did he get his start? How did he go from dirt poor to a budding and respected businessman with no footprint anywhere? None of this makes sense.”
The noise from the newsroom makes it harder to concentrate like I need to be. It’s as chaotic as usual, with staff writers scurrying in every direction like the world is on fire. Meanwhile, it’s actually a Tuesday afternoon, which usually means a slow news day.
I sigh and snap shut my laptop. Baron walks by as I’m stuffing it inside my shoulder bag.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’re heading out to the field in half an hour.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I fib. “I’ll take sick leave the rest of the day.”
“That’s your third time this month.”
“So what? You’re not my boss, Baron. You don’t get to dictate when I can use my sick hours. Cheng is here. He can cover for me.”
He’s pissed, his agitated energy rolling off him, as I finish gathering my things and walk out.
I might be ruffling too many feathers, but I’m not above leaving Metro News altogether. Now that my boyfriend— ex-boyfriend really —owns the company and we’ve broken up, it seems fitting that I should leave anyway.
I’ve gone back-and-forth over whether things are really over between Rafael and me.
I’m imperfect. I’m human.
Even as I’ve launched an investigation into his background, sometimes I find myself waffling on what to do. If I’ve overreacted and thrown around accusations that were unfair to him.
He’s always treated me well when we’re together. He respects me, spoils me, lavishes me with affection and his undivided attention. For Jayla’s birthday he’d gone out of his way to throw an extravagant party.
Just for my sister.
I can’t even imagine the trouble he’d go through for my birthday.
He bought my fledgling news network in order to save it. He donated millions to my favorite charity helping underprivileged children.
A truly terrible man would never do these things. He would never go through such trouble for a woman like me, would he?
Then I think about all the other odd occurrences like the shooting and the yacht explosion. I think about the crew of armed men who seem to follow Rafael everywhere and the way the mere mention of his name got Luigi Grasso to back down.
Before he turned up dead.
Shot dead in cold blood, on the street like nothing.
I blink and realize I’ve been so lost in thought that I’ve walked into the Java King on the corner from the station and gotten in line. It’s now my turn to order.
The two college-aged girls behind me sigh impatiently, prompting me to step toward the counter and order my usual.
I sit down with my drink and phone in hand thinking about what I should do next. I’ve reached a dead end as far as what information I can unearth online. What about info I could gather from people who know Rafael?
A name comes to mind scrolling through the contact list on my phone. It’s a person I haven’t contacted in almost two years, but who has remained in my phone by chance.
Three rings later, Francesca Vigoda’s answering her phone.
“Hello?” she says, a confused lilt to her Italian accent.
“Francesca? Hi, it’s me Portia James. I’m not sure if you remember me from?—”
“Our American Princess,” she interrupts, her voice brighter now. “Yes, of course I remember you. What a nice surprise! Are you back in Sicily?”
“Hmm? Oh, no! No, that’s not why I’m calling. I was actually… I was hoping maybe you could provide me some info.”
“Info? What kind of info?”
“About Rafael Calderone. You had mentioned your company works for him.”
“That is correct. He invests in our touring company. Would you like me to set up a future tour for you and your sister?”
“Maybe another time. I was more so interested in learning more about Rafael. Your families knew each other growing up, correct?”
“Mr. Calderone is from Ragusa like my family.”
“Can you tell me more about his family? His upbringing? More about his?—”
“I’m sorry, I’m not able to provide any information about Mr. Calderone.”
“But maybe you can tell me how your company began working?—”
“Portia, I am sorry,” she repeats firmly. “I can’t answer these kinds of questions. It was nice speaking to you. Goodbye.”
The call drops before I can plead with her to stay on the phone.
Sighing, I rub at my brow as if pained by a headache. Something tells me any other business associates I contact will have a similar knee-jerk response to any questions. The people he works with are undyingly loyal. That’s for sure.
“It’s going to be lit.”
“I can’t wait. You’re sure you can get us in?”
“Positive. I know all the bouncers at U4EA.”
Giggles erupt from the table behind me.
I sneak a subtle glance over my shoulder to find the two college-aged girls who had been in line behind me are now seated at my neighboring table. I’d think nothing of their conversation if not for what they say next.
“Rumor has it there’s a new product they’re selling,” whispers the first girl. “It’s called Nectar. I can probably score us some.”
The second girl’s laugh is nervous. “The last party favor I tried had me passed out by the toilet.”
“Don’t worry, this one is said to cause extreme levels of euphoria. Just like the club name. It’s a sign!”
“I’ll try it… but I swear, Cassie, if this shit lands me in the ER again?—”
“It won’t. Chill. I’ll pick you up at ten.”
I’m playing it cool, sipping from my latte as the girls’ conversation shifts to another topic. For most of the day I’ve been investigating Rafael and his background. It’s funny that a development on the other recent news story I’ve been researching—the mafia and these alleged drug shipments—has fallen into my lap.
The question is, do I dare follow this latest lead?
* * *
Jayla’s lounging on the couch when I get home. She’s gone on a hiatus from the salon since her sprained ankle and fractured rib make the task of doing hair much more difficult. As the door opens and I walk through, she sits up and flips off the TV.
“You okay, sissy?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Cheng was on the news. Not you.”
I toss my purse onto the loveseat and crash down along with it. “Oh, that. I left early. Sick leave.”
“Again?”
“You sound like Baron.”
“You’ve been…” Jayla pauses as if to choose her next words carefully. Her normally feathered Halle Berry-style pixie cut is disheveled from hours of lying on the couch. “Ever since the whole yacht thing, girl, you’ve been off.”
“You were the one who almost decided not to go. It turns out your premonition was right.”
“Nobody could’ve predicted what happened there.”
“But your intuition was telling you something.”
“Please, I was just down about turning thirty-two. It had nothing to do with the party itself.”
I frown. “It… it didn’t?”
“You and Rafael broke up over it.” She sighs with a shake of her head.
“Because you were hurt!”
“And did Rafael hurt me himself… or was it whoever the crazy was who planted the bomb? By the way, the detective on the case called earlier. No new leads.”
“Not surprising.”
“I don’t want you using me as an excuse to end the relationship,” Jayla says. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Truthfully, I’m not even sure why I ended things the way I did.
In the days since, Rafael has reached out to talk. He’s had more flowers sent to the apartment. I haven’t responded to any of his attempts.
My suspicions have gone nowhere. They’ve been on hyperdrive since I’ve started digging into his life.
But another, more honest part of me recognizes what else is true too—I used the yacht incident and Jayla’s injury as an excuse to put distance between us. It was another defensive mechanism of mine, acting out of past trauma and hurt.
It always circles back to Lincoln and our failed marriage.
Basically all of my failed relationships with men.
Rather than get hurt again, I chose to push Rafael away first. Even if I had no real evidence my suspicions are true.
I stand up, leaning over to drop a peck on top of Jayla’s head. “You really need to get your own dating life, sis. You’re too involved in mine… and making too much damn sense.”
She laughs from the couch. “Me and Adagio had a good time at my party until, you know. This sprained ankle and fucked up rib have put me out of the game. So much for birthday dick.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Yeah, maybe. But did you see after the blast? Me and Adagio got separated, and guess who picked me up and carried me the whole way to the lifeboat?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”
“Maurizio! Not going to lie, I forgot about Adagio in that moment. Maurizio scooped me right up like it was nothing.”
I can’t help smirking. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Me?” Jayla asks innocently. “Never!”
It’s not long after we have dinner—leftover Thai food from last night—that I start getting ready for my outing.
Jayla asks several questions that go unanswered. She even ponders if it’s a date I’m headed on.
I remain coy and mysterious, preferring to keep her out of it. If she knew I was headed to a dance club solely to find out more about this new drug hitting the streets then she’d lose her shit. She would absolutely refuse to let me go.
Even though she’s two years younger, I’d prefer to avoid her threats of FaceTiming Mom and Dad.
Tonight must be kept discreet and low key.
I shower and then squeeze myself into a form-fitting, body-con type dress that highlights my breasts and ass. One pair of strappy heels and a few swipes of makeup later, I’m ready to go. I walk out to more questions from Jayla.
Because even I’m not bold enough to ride the subway dressed like this, I call a taxi. My mind lingers on Rafael on the way over to Club U4EA.
He would probably be furious if he knew I was headed to a nightclub all by myself and dressed like this. He’d claim I was better than turning up at a club known for its party drugs and casual hookups. It would be too dangerous in his eyes.
But a lead is a lead.
I’ve been working for weeks to discover what’s going on between Il Diavolo and the Belluccis and their war with the Tucos.
It seems to be over the shipments of this new drug hitting the streets.
If I can connect with the dealers, then I can go from there tracing it back to the mafia families. It’s the kind of undercover investigative work that has won other journalists some of the biggest media awards out there.
Breaking a story like this could make me a household name not just in Newport. It could make me a household name across America.
Nerves flutter inside my stomach when I finally arrive and the taxi promptly speeds off.
I approach the dance club with a sway in my hips, walking like I’m a diva on the scene. It garners looks from others hanging outside the club. People in line stare and a few men whistle. I keep going, chin defiantly raised, the sway in my hips hypnotic.
Once at the front of the line, the bouncer raises both brows at me. He’s a beefy meathead type like almost all bouncers are, dressed in all black and with tattoos inking his thick arms. He looks distinctly Italian, even under the dim lighting outside the club.
“Yeah?” he asks, jutting his chin. “You know there’s a line?”
I think fast, my every blink emphasizing the sultry look in my eyes. “I’m here with Rafael Calderone. He’s VIP, correct?”
The man’s brows knit in confusion. He tilts his head toward his counterpart, the second bouncer who’s been messing with an iPad device. Presumably how he’s checking the names on the list. His counterpart nods.
“Mr. Calderone is always welcomed at Milos’s behest. You know that.”
“Alright,” the first bouncer says to me. “You’re in if you’re a part of his party.”
I rush through before he can ask any follow up questions.
The brain-busting bass hits me first. It’s the deep, pulse-pounding beats from the music that make me pause even before making it to the dance floor.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard music so damn loud.
Maybe Rafael would be right to claim I don’t belong here.
A few minutes in, and I’m already over the crowds and noise. If I were in my twenties, I might find it easier to let go and dive into the scene. As a thirty-four-year-old woman, all I want to do is find the nearest barstool for a seat and maybe order a drink to sip on slowly.
I push on anyway.
The crowd is so hype that they’re thrashing and dancing until sweat leaks from their pores. They don’t care that they bump into each other or that they’ve lost the people they’ve come in with. None of it matters as the party atmosphere takes over.
I’m the most alert person around.
My gaze bounces from face to face, scouring the crowds for any clues.
Some guy palms my ass and I turn around to shove him in the chest.
“Touch me again and it’s an elbow to the face next,” I shout over the music.
It’s enough to make me leave the dance floor and gravitate toward the sidelines of the large club. On the second floor is the VIP section, where I’m guessing coveted guests like Rafael would be able to go.
The question is, would they object to me venturing up there? Would it be insanely dangerous if I took the chance?
“Probably,” I mutter under my breath.
Even I’m not that crazy… or am I?
I remain on the ground floor, searching for a different in.
My opportunity comes when I’m outside the restroom and catch a group of friends talking about seeing stars. They’re giggly and can barely walk straight as they rush back onto the dance floor.
I take the hint and wander into the women’s restroom.
The inside is like most club restrooms, with a couple of the stalls occupied and some women in front of the sink mirrors reapplying their makeup.
And then there’s the woman in a bomber jacket hanging around the paper towel dispensers.
I casually stroll over to the last sink where she’s only a few feet away and twist on the faucet to wash my hands. She’s pale with dark hair and a tattoo on her cheek, leaning against the tiled wall like she has all night.
She probably does.
I’m lathering my hands with soap when a pair of women approach her and the exchange happens in the reflection of the mirror.
They hand her cash. She hands them some kind of golden liquid substance in vials.
It’s that quick and wordless.
They hurry off and she pockets the cash.
It occurs to me that I could approach her, but I’ve never purchased a drug in my life. The only times I’ve ever smoked weed were in college and it was my boyfriend at the time providing it. Something about approaching a dealer in the bathroom of a club feels… even riskier than I’m willing to go.
Before I can even make up my mind, the woman’s phone rings and she heads for the exit.
After a second or two, I move to follow her out of the restroom. She’s already long gone, swallowed up by the sea of club goers.
I sigh out of frustration and search the crowds for my next lead.
I’ve come this far. There’s no way I’m giving up so easily. Out of a club of dozens of people, someone has to know more about Nectar and the ties to the Belluccis and Tucos.
My solution arrives in the form of the VIP section. The bouncer that’s standing guard over the entrance walks off, called somewhere else for the moment. I push my way through the crowd to the other side of the club, then pause for a second or two, waiting to make sure no one else is watching.
I take the leap, hurrying past the entrance into the secluded, roped off section. My pulse is beating hard in my veins. I assume I’m in the clear until a hand clamps shut around my upper arm and nearly pulls me off balance.
Shit, the bouncer’s back!
But as I look up to see who’s grabbed hold of me, I realize I’m wrong. The bouncer’s nowhere in sight.
Lincoln stands before me, gripping my arm with no intention of letting go.