24. Portia
24
PORTIA
“Lincoln?” I choke out, wrenching my arm out of his grasp. “What the hell are you doing here? Did you follow me?”
He gives a roll of his eyes. “Following you? Jesus Christ, Portia, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”
“You did break into my apartment just a few weeks ago.”
“Your landlord gave me a key. Big difference.”
“A key that no longer works,” I say, folding my arms. “We’ve changed the locks and threatened to sue if she ever does that again. So don’t you think about trying it.”
“I wanted to talk to you. But just so you know… that didn’t mean I wanted you back.” He cuts his gaze away from me as if suddenly bored by my presence and this conversation.
He’s dressed up more than usual—whereas past Lincoln wore torn jeans riddled with holes and t-shirts with sarcastic phrases stamped on the front, tonight he’s in a navy-blue button-down shirt and slacks. The top few buttons are even undone, showing off a curl or two of chest hair.
His once unruly waves atop his head are now slicked down with pomade that shines under the flashing club lights. He’s shaved any scruff, showing off the cleft in his chin.
He almost resembles the man he was on our wedding day, back when I was hopeful he would make for a quality husband and he had me fooled.
Then I realize just why he’s bothered to dress up—he’s not here alone. He wasn’t even following me.
He’s in the VIP section, because he’s here with a group of dressy men trading zingers over Scotch.
They look like big-time bankers or lawyers you’d expect to find in the financial district.
Not a seedy dance club known for its drugs and casual hook ups like U4EA.
Then again, maybe that’s exactly why they’re here. Nobody knows how to indulge in some narcotics by night and parlay that into more success by day than men in business. Many of them have infamously serious substance abuse issues and regularly cheat on their wives.
What the hell is Lincoln doing with a group of men like that?
He seems to pick up on my train of thought after a second and casts me a crooked, cocky grin.
“Remember how you said I’d never find an investor for my tech startup?” he asks. “Guess what, Portia? You were wrong. It wasn’t just a pipe dream. Maybe if you actually supported me instead of trashing my dream any chance you got, you’d be able to reap some of what I’m about to sow.”
“You’ve found an investor?” I arch a skeptical brow. “ For real this time?”
He holds his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “This close to cutting the deal. They’ve invited me out to drinks. You know what that means. I’m practically in there.”
“That’s… that’s good to hear.”
I’m not sure what else to say. This evening has taken a turn I never saw coming. Never in a million years did I imagine I’d come out to U4EA in the first place and then run into my ex-husband about to finally make a milestone in his once go-nowhere tech entrepreneur career.
As bass-heavy music throbs and strobe lights pass around us, it feels surreal. I’ve fallen asleep without even realizing it.
“You could’ve been by my side,” Lincoln goes on. “You know that, right? But I guess it’s no difference to you. You’re dating that Cauldron guy, aren’t you? Some billionaire blah, blah, blah. You know how dangerous he is, don’t you? Not that you care. His bank account is more important. Doesn’t surprise me. You’ve always been money hungry. How could I compete?”
I snap out of my dream-like reverie and shake my head. “And what money was I hungry for when I was married to you? You had none. I was your bank, remember? Good night, Lincoln.”
He goes to grab at me a second time, but I’m faster escaping his advances. I sidle away, among the others wandering the roped off VIP space. The next time I throw a subtle glance over my shoulder, he’s given up altogether and returned to his table of potential investors.
Thank god.
That was… strange. And unexpected.
I’m on the verge of throwing in the towel and calling tonight a dud.
I found a dealer for Nectar, but I’m no closer to drawing connections between the hot new psychedelic in demand and any of the crime families involved.
I might as well have stayed home in my sleep shirt and fuzzy slippers, binge-watching the latest Netflix drama on the couch with Jayla.
At least I’d be comfortable and my feet wouldn’t be aching like a bitch.
I’m scanning the floor for the quickest escape route when a deep part in the crowd forms. People break away from each other as a man and his followers stride through VIP.
Sergio Sacrimoni, presumably the new capo after Luigi’s untimely execution, enters the VIP section of U4EA like he owns the place. His trout mouth is dipped into an even more severe frown than usual, his thick brow just as creased.
I bow my head at the last possible second in hopes he or any of his men won’t notice me.
It’s been a while since our impromptu run-in at Bocca, but Sergio had been no different from Luigi with his staring problem. He could easily recognize me if he happens to look in my direction.
Tonight it seems he has other things on his mind.
He strides the rest of the way through VIP, disappearing down a hall in the back. I’d guess he’s headed to speak to the club owner since that’s where the management area seems to be.
It’s an itch I can’t scratch—my curiosity that grows inside me like a rising tide. Fully aware it’s dangerous and possibly stupid, I’m a journalist for a reason. The unknown bothers me, and I hate leaving stones unturned.
I can’t go home when the Tucos have entered the building.
Something is up and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.
“Just a peek,” I whisper to myself.
I’m quick enough that in a few rushed steps, I’m starting down the same hall. The last door on the left is open. The door to the club owner’s office. Their voices spill out into the hall as well as the light from inside. I shrink into the shadows, flattening myself against the wall, my ears strained for every word.
“We had your word, Milos!” roars Sergio. “And you go and backstab us for him? You think that was smart?”
“No… p-please… he th-threatened me…” his voice shakes before it breaks off altogether.
“Am I supposed to give a shit? This was supposed to be our sales floor, our product! Get up. Get the fuck up!”
I flinch at the sheer fury entrenched in Sergio’s command. If I’m shaken eavesdropping from the hall outside, I can only imagine the club owner Milos having to be surrounded by Sergio and his men.
“W-where are you taking me?” Milos sputters. “Please!”
“Where do you think? Straight to the source! You know where his operation is. That’s where you’ll take us. So we can all have a nice little friendly meet up. Sounds like fun, don’t it?”
My heart practically stops as suddenly Sergio and his men emerge from the office. But once again they’re too preoccupied with the business they’re handling to notice me several feet away. They turn down the opposite end of the hall, shoving open the emergency exit doors and dragging a sobbing and sweating Milos with them.
I have only a split second to make up my mind.
I rush out of the same rear exit to hail a taxi and follow the black Escalades they’ve just sped off in.
* * *
“This is good enough. Thank you!” I say breathlessly to the taxi driver.
He’s done exactly as I’ve asked and tailed the black Escalades that Sergio Sacrimoni and his men left in. We’ve wound up in a neighborhood more than a little familiar with mob activity—in every direction is the lifeless and sterile building of a meat-packing plant. The air even reeks of the raw, bloody smell of meat.
I step out of the taxi to the fog rolling through the cold and desolate streets and watch as the black Escalades turn down a path for freight trucks. They’re going around the back of the building to where the meat is likely unloaded.
The taxi hardly waits to see if I’m even safe where he’s dropped me off. Within seconds, his rubber tires are working overtime as he speeds off like he was never here in the first place.
I can’t say I’m surprised.
This isn’t the kind of neighborhood you want to be caught in after dark. Certainly not with all the recent mob-related activity.
It’s not a neighborhood I should be lurking in either.
But, sometimes, getting to the bottom of the story outweighs personal safety. No other journalist is willing to take the risks I am. The NPPD have avoided looking too hard into many of the crimes related to crime families like the Belluccis and Tucos for the same reason.
If Il Diavolo and his iron grip on the city is ever going to be undone, it’ll have to be someone like me breaking the story wide open.
I take my time approaching the factory. I wait several minutes until I’m certain Sergio and his men have dragged Milos inside. Upon approaching the drab building with its flat and squat structure, I realize the black Escalades aren’t the only vehicles at the property after hours.
Several other vehicles are parked around the sides.
Who else is here that Sergio has brought Milos to see? Could it be Titus Tuco, the Don of the Tuco family… or could it be for a showdown with the Belluccis? Is the infamous Il Diavolo involved?
In a matter of minutes, I have the answer to my question. I’ve snuck around the side and let myself into the factory as discreetly as possible. Once I’m inside, I slip into the shadows, staying close to the wall, following the distant traces of voices.
At night in such a large and empty space, voices echo. All sounds travel back to me.
I track the sounds while trying to remain silent and unheard myself.
The meat plant is full of heavy machinery everywhere with giant meat hooks and conveyor belts and crates upon crates. Creeping closer to a stack of these plastic crates so I’ll be concealed, I go still and listen to the men’s exchange.
“I must say I’m pleased to have so many guests,” comes a voice thickened by an Italian accent.
Sergio Sacrimoni scoffs. “If by pleased you mean shitting your pants, then I’ll agree. You’ve got got, Diavolo. We’re shutting down your operation and taking the territory. You thought Milos was going to backstab us for you?”
The man with the thick Italian accent laughs. “You misunderstand everything that’s going on. I was speaking about my other guest.”
I chance a small peek from around the edge of the crates and almost gasp. I have to quickly swallow down air and clamp my lips shut to keep from giving myself away.
The scene before me is shocking enough that it’s worthy of a gasp… and so much more.
There’s a man in an unsettling devil’s mask sitting on what can only be described as a throne. He’s surrounded by a group of intimidating men who wear the same scowls and have the same muscular builds.
Standing opposite them is Sergio and his guys, with Milos cowering at his side.
And then there’s the other visitor Il Diavolo’s referencing. The real reason I almost gasped.
Rafael Calderone who has just been marched through a door with two armed men I’ve never seen before flanking him. They’re not his usual security guards, and they have their machine guns out, which makes me almost think they’re not his employees.
They’re… not even on his side?
I cover my mouth with my hands and feel the rest of my body shake from the deep waves of shock crashing over me.
Rafael smirks at the room full of hardened, steely Italian gangsters. “Good evening, gentlemen. You said you had some business you wanted to discuss?”