29. Rafael
29
RAFAEL
“Some bruising. Particularly at the throat. You’ll probably notice it feels raw and that your voice might sound hoarse. That’s from the damage to your larynx and the swelling in your trachea. It should reduce in a few days, but you’ll feel some mild discomfort. We’ll keep you on the anti-inflammatories to reduce the swelling,” says my physician. He trails his fingers along the deep purple bruising on Portia’s throat. “Luckily, Mr. Calderone saved you quick enough that you didn’t consume much water. We’ll monitor you for any signs of secondary drowning or infection, especially pneumonia, just to be on the extra safe side. But you should be in the clear.”
Portia gives him a relieved smile, then glances at me. She’s still not herself, more quiet and subdued than usual. She’s draped in a thermal blanket that I’ve put over her shoulders to keep her warm. It makes her look even smaller than she is.
As if my protective instinct weren’t already on its highest setting.
I haven’t left her side. All I want to do is put my arms around her and hold her ’til she’s back to herself.
But I also understand where she’s coming from—tonight was a hell of a lot to experience. It’s left even me drained, eyes aching and my head polluted with a million different thoughts.
There’s so much left to handle and address that it feels like an avalanche rolling down toward me.
It’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I remind myself this as I link my fingers with Portia’s and help her down from the exam table. She naturally fits against my side, leaning her head onto my chest.
We haven’t talked much since what happened at the docks, but we’ve come to an unspoken understanding.
Things have been strained between us in recent days, but we’re still together. We’re going to work through it all.
I take her to my bedroom and start a hot shower for her.
“Get in,” I say, kissing the top of her head. Her hair’s started to curl at the root as it gradually dries, her natural texture coming through. I take the blanket from her shoulders and help unzip the form-fitted dress she’s put herself in.
The torn hem enraged me all over again when I pulled her out of the water. Portia assured me in the back of the Audi on our ride home that she hadn’t been violated in that way. Sergio Sacrimoni being the piece of shit he was, thought it would be funny to use part of her dress to bandage himself.
My rage has gone nowhere.
Everything else she’s experienced tonight is enough to draw the devil out of me. It’s almost enough to make me black out and turn into the other half of me. So far, I’ve managed to keep it under lock when in Portia’s presence.
But knowing that Sergio and the Tucos so easily and eagerly targeted her—and have been targeting her all along—ignites a new, untold level of fury.
I’ve assumed recent events were directed at me. Moments like the shooting at the Rise and Thrive charity dinner and the boat explosion pointed to the Tucos suspecting I was Il Diavolo. It seems, at least according to Sergio, these were actually attacks against Portia.
The Tucos didn’t want her investigating the drug shipments. They were aware, like I was, that she was getting closer to the truth.
I help Portia into the shower, then excuse myself for a moment.
Mara happens to be passing by in the hall when I step out of my room. I pull her aside and ask her to prepare a few things to help Portia feel better.
“ Sì, signor Calderone. Per favore, mi dia qualche minuto .” My loyal, reliable maid scurries off to go make it happen.
I stop by my office quickly and lay out my next set of orders to Adagio and Maurizio, putting them in charge for the next twelve hours. Maurizio will be filling in as Il Diavolo for any matters pertaining to Titus Tuco while Adagio is in charge of handling Sergio.
“Only emergencies,” I tell them. “I am with her and no one else until tomorrow afternoon.”
By the time I return to my bedroom, the shower’s still going. Portia’s only just gotten started enjoying her sizzling hot shower.
I step into the bathroom stealthily, taking a moment to watch her (and, admittedly, enjoy the sight).
She’s directly under the spray, working conditioner through her hair with her fingers. The water and soap suds run down her curvy-slim body, sliding from her round breasts and flat stomach to the apex of her thighs.
Portia keeps her pussy with a fuzzy strip of barely-there hair that drives me wild every time I see it.
Now is no different as I spend a couple seconds watching her and my cock swells inside my pants. Tonight is about taking care of her, and ensuring she feels better from everything that happened, but I’m still a man with a voracious appetite—most of all, for her and her only.
Since we’ve been fighting, I haven’t so much as touched her, and being so close to her as she lets a heavy stream of water wash down her body feels like torture.
She finally senses my presence, her bright, dark eyes meeting mine. I recognize the spark that burns in them.
Come join me.
A hint of a grin passes over my face as I tug on my tie and start unbuttoning my shirt. I’m still in the suit I’d worn when diving in to save Portia. Though it’s mostly dry now, it’s wrinkled and ruined and will be taken out with the trash tomorrow. I have a thousand more just like it in my closet.
It takes me only a couple seconds to strip down and join her. She steps aside to make room for me.
In the past, I’ve hated this kind of thing. Any woman I dated understood I needed certain moments for privacy. They were not to intrude on me when I was in the shower or even stay long enough in my penthouse to take one.
I always made sure they arrived home safely, delivering them by personal driver, but my space never became their own.
Portia is different. I want her in my space. I want to be in hers.
There’s nothing that feels more intimate than moments like this. No one else I’d ever want to spend them with.
We take our time, bathing in companionable silence, trading little smiles and tender caresses. I stroke the soft curve of her shoulders as I help her rinse out the conditioner from her hair. My fingers massage her scalp, making her close her eyes and release a sigh of comfort.
The water is piping hot. Portia, like most women, loves it that way. Fortunately for her, it’s virtually impossible for the water temperature to drop in my penthouse. A luxury of installing one of the most expensive water heaters on the market.
We towel off once we’ve cooked ourselves long enough.
After becoming a regular guest at my home, Portia has her own drawers and section in my closet. She slips into a loose set of silky pajamas, the top and bottoms a blush pink trimmed with black piping. I put on my usual black pajama bottoms and nothing else.
The things I’ve requested from Mara have been delivered. Honey lemon tea and some traditional pastina soup.
“It should help you feel better,” I say. “I figured you would be hungry after… everything.”
We sit down at the accent chairs in my large room and dine on a bowl each. Portia seems to enjoy the soup, which is thick and soothing with small pieces of chopped chicken, cut up vegetables, sprinkles of parmesan, and some savory seasoning for flavor.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice hoarser than usual.
“No need to thank me, dolcezza . There is a whole pot in the kitchen. If you want more, Mara will bring some.”
“I didn’t mean the soup… though it’s delicious. I meant for tonight. You rescued me.”
“I will always be there when you need me. Never forget that, dolcezza .”
Her gaze lowers to the mug of warm tea in front of her. “Rafael, I owe you an apology.”
“You owe me nothing. All that matters is you’re okay.”
“No, I do. I said some terrible things. I blamed you for what happened to Jayla. I accused you of being affiliated with the mob,” she sighs, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. That was low of me. You threw my sister an amazing birthday party, and all I could do was lash out at you.
“Sergio told me they’d been targeting me for a while. They knew about my investigation. Your boat blew up because of me. You were shot because of me. All of it was.”
Hearing the guilt in her voice only makes me feel guilty.
Portia is internalizing what’s happened, blaming herself for everything, when she doesn’t have the full story. She doesn’t realize she was taken tonight because she’s my girlfriend. She almost lost her life because Sergio wanted to force me into an alliance.
Her entire investigation wasn’t for naught—she was extremely close to discovering the real truth. That the drug war escalating between the Belluccis and Tucos wasn’t slowing down soon, and I’m the culprit she’s been searching for all along.
If I were a good man, a decent man, I’d clear her conscience and tell her the truth.
But I’m not a good man. I’m Rafael Calderone.
Sono il diavolo travestito.
I’m a selfish man who always gets what he wants in the end. Portia is the object of my obsession, and I will do anything to have her.
It’s true that I said I’d never lie to her. But I also never said I’d tell her the truth either. In order to get what I want, she can never know.
Just like she can never know about what happened in Sicily.
She would hate me if she ever found out.
I reach across the small round table between us and cup her cheek. “Stop blaming yourself. None of what’s happened is your fault. You know who’s to blame? Sergio Sacrimoni and the Tuco crime family. You were doing your job as an investigative reporter.”
That seems to assuage her guilt enough that she’s able to enjoy the last of the pastina.
We dim the lights and get into bed. Still worried about her and how she was plunged into such icy cold water, I’ve turned on the electric fireplace to make the room extra warm and toasty.
Portia tucks herself into the nook at my side, allowing me to wrap my arm around her. She tells me about what happened in the taxicab and how she’d slowly come to the realization the driver was one of Tuco’s guys. Apparently, he had removed the real driver and then posed as one at the behest of Sergio.
What she tells me next is even harder to hear. The fake taxi driver realized she was trying to call 911 and attacked her in the backseat. The strangulation marks on her throat reveal how vicious it must’ve been. He was strangling her not in warning but with murderous intent.
I have to force myself to draw calming breaths or else risk descending into the dark mindset I avoid around Portia.
She squeezes against my side and tells me that I was on her mind during these final moments.
“I kept thinking how we hadn’t had a chance to make up. I never got to tell you how I feel.”
“And how do you feel, dolcezza ?” I ask, a playful grin on my face. “Are you in love with me yet?”
She rolls her eyes. “With that ego? Fat chance.”
“You say that… but you really love my bravado.”
“I like a man who is ambitious and confident. Two adjectives I’d use to describe you.”
“Is that what you thought when you first met me?”
She thinks a second. “I thought you were intimidating actually. And mysterious. You were watching me from the balcony at Appetito. You had a very focused look on your face.”
“That’s because I was looking at the most beautiful woman in Sicily.”
“You didn’t come down to have dinner with us.”
“Because I wanted to impress you. But I wanted you to myself. You were surrounded by the others.”
Her dark eyes glimmer as she tips her head back and peers up at me. “You wanted to impress me?”
“ Dolcezza , everything I’ve done has been to impress you.”
“I’d say it’s worked,” she says, kissing the edge of my jaw. “It’s funny thinking about it now. I was so excited for Sicily. I had been once as a child, but I didn’t have any memories of it. Jayla and I just wanted to relax on the beach and get some shopping done. I never imagined I’d meet you.”
“It was fate.”
Her eyelids lower as she grows sleepier. “It seems like it. I’m glad fate finally blessed me. You support me and my passions like my work. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I watch moment to moment as Portia gradually slips off to sleep in my arms. It seems her fight against exhaustion has finally ended and drowsiness has taken over.
I’m awake for another half hour, processing what happened tonight, and how I’ll move forward tomorrow.
Titus will likely press forward with defying Il Diavolo and trying to get his product out in the market. Il Diavolo will follow up on his threats and a vicious war will break out, even more brutal than what we’ve already engaged in.
But it’s a necessary evil to maintain the throne and keep power.
It’s what must be done.
The more troubling problem involves the woman dozing in my arms. Portia is at ease as she sleeps in my bed, her beautiful face still and eyelids closed. She has no idea that she’s come so close to uncovering the real truth.
For that she almost paid with her life. It makes me wonder if she’ll be able to drop it now.
…or will she continue to investigate? Will she keep digging, which will result in inevitable attempts on her life?
I’m not so arrogant that I believe it’s impossible she could figure things out. Portia’s intelligent, curious, and determined, a dangerous combination.
Am I prepared to risk that someday this will happen again?
I battle it out in my head as eventually sleep claims me.
Hours pass before I open my eyes again and find that it’s so early in the morning, most of Newport’s still asleep.
Portia’s no different; she’s strayed from my side at some point and rolled onto her back. I lean over and place a gentle kiss on her cheek. I’m careful getting out of bed, moving slow so not to wake her up.
Last night I said any business could wait until the afternoon, but even in sleep my mind’s been overcrowded. I have too much to think about.
Only my overnight guards are on shift, stationed dutifully at different points throughout the penthouse. The floor is otherwise quiet.
I go to my office, snicking the door shut. The large window overlooks the pale early morning sky as gradually the lights in the surrounding skyscrapers blink on and traffic grows many stories below.
I’ve stopped at my desk, drawing the top drawer open. The devil mask is placed inside, the menacing scowl permanently fixed onto its face.
It stares up at me like it’s alive. He’s waiting for me.
My fingers curl over the edge of the drawer. The silence in the room, and the rest of the penthouse, suddenly feels deafening.
Something stirs inside me. It uncoils like a snake from the darkest corner within, then slithers up my spine. I can feel its venom poisoning my bloodstream and the hiss of it in my ear. His voice, his thoughts, his everything taking over.
Il Diavolo.
He exists inside me like a secondary presence. Another person trapped deep inside.
I pick up the mask in my hands and return it to its rightful place on my face. The blood-red leather mask slips over my features and feels cool against the skin.
My pulse speeds up. The world narrows to a dark tunnel. Familiar urges take root, amplifying times a thousand.
It’s a rush like no other, dark and electric and intense.
I step toward the giant window to admire the reflection in the glass and see a different man standing before me.
I am Il Diavolo.
And he is hungry.