Chapter 2 - Portia
CHAPTER 2 - PORTIA
Saying goodbye to Jayla the next morning is even harder than I thought. We hug it out at the airport before she heads for the security checkpoint. I sigh, trying my best to keep it together.
This is what I wanted when I resigned from Metro News and moved to DC.
It was a chance to start over and finally put myself out there. At thirty-four, I’d lived in Newport my entire life. I’d left Mom and Dad’s nest for college when I turned eighteen. Lincoln and I married only a year after I graduated, then spent several disastrous years in a marriage destined to fail. Once divorced, Jayla and I moved in together, each for our own reasons. She was opening up her new hair salon and I was recovering from my flop marriage.
I’d never really been on my own.
After Rafael broke up with me, it seemed like the right time to venture out. The Primetime DC job offer fell into my lap and I impulsively took it.
But as I walk out of the sliding doors of the airport, I’m reminded of how unsettled my life in DC feels. Instead of some fresh journey advancing my career and starting over, it feels like I’m running away from problems I left behind in Newport.
I pull out my phone and check my messages.
Nothing has indicated this more than the text I received last night.
An unknown number had reached out about Benjamin Sigler’s death. It sent shockwaves through me, drawing my mind back to last winter.
I’d been determined to blow the lid off the mob war between the Bellucci and Tuco families, eventually making contact with an associate named Benjamin Sigler. Relations between him and the Bellucci’s had soured after his brother was offed for betraying their trust. After that, he was willing to sell any info on the crime family to the highest bidder—or even blab for free to anonymous media reps like me.
…and then he turned up dead.
It was only the beginning of what seemed to be a concerted effort to squash my investigation. I was the lone journalist in Newport looking to expose the organized crime families. They were locked into a race to release some new psychedelic drug onto the streets. The deeper I dug, the more I made contact with inside sources like Sigler. The deadlier the risks became.
Not only was Sigler permanently silenced, but I became a prime target of mobsters like Il Diavolo from the Bellucci family and Titus Tuco from the Tucos.
So who sent me the text from the unknown number?
My Uber arrives outside the airport to take me back to my apartment. I slide into the backseat and spend the duration of the ride considering who the person could be.
They refused to identify themselves when I asked who they were. They claimed there would be more discretion if we met in person to discuss Sigler.
I’ve yet to agree.
How can I take the chance that this unknown number isn’t some trap? How do I know it’s not someone from the Bellucci or Tuco syndicates trying to lure me out? Some attempt of theirs to finish what they started in Newport and off me?
The mob rarely lets people off the hook. They don’t allow people to escape their clutches.
The only way you make it out—at least in most cases—is when you’re buried six feet under or dumped in the ocean with cement blocks tethered to your feet.
I’m not naive enough to trust some unknown number. Regardless of how unfinished my investigative work in Newport feels, I’m not going down that rabbit hole again.
It’s simply… not worth it.
For the rest of the weekend, I’m a recluse.
I binge watch Netflix, read two books (one self help, another a romantic thriller), and spend a few hours working out in the gym in my apartment building. Anything to keep my mind off the things that draw my thoughts back to what I’m avoiding.
Mom and Dad FaceTime me to gush all about their latest cruise—a fourteen night excursion across the Mediterranean they’re four days into.
“Portia baby, you need to tell your father to stop!” Mom says loudly, a little tipsy off rosé wine. “He was stripping at the pool! Big ol’ belly out and all!”
“Now Martha don’t go telling my business!” Dad slurs, nudging Mom partially out of the camera frame. He leans in close, the angle awkward considering its from below. “Portia, tell your mother to stop snitchin’.”
I chuckle. “You’re both a mess. How much have you had to drink?”
“Dunno,” answers Dad. “They have unlimited drinks for Premier members.”
“That’s us!” Mom cackles, holding up her glass with a bright paper umbrella hanging off the side.
“I can tell.”
“You… you and Jay need to come with us on our next one!” hiccups Dad. “Eight night trip across Iceland and Norway. Now I know what you’re thinking—sounds sorta bland, right? But wait ’til you hear about the… hic… amenities. Jacuzzi.”
“Free Drinks,” Mom rattles off.
“IMAX theater,” Dad adds. “Massages.”
“Jacuzzi,” Mom says. “Oh… wait. You said that one!”
They’re both cracking up in laughter as I shake my head and tell them to call me tomorrow… when they’re sober. Leave it to Mom and Dad to soak up their best carefree retiree life.
It’s the distant future I’ve always envisioned with the man I fall in love with and marry.
Some point in our future where we’ve raised our children and are empty nesters that can go on adventures together. When I married Lincoln, I had thought that would be us in another thirty years. I had no idea that we wouldn’t even make it past five.
As if you and Rafael stood a better chance.
I shake off the bitter thought about the man who always slips into my mind and return to the book I’m reading.
Come Monday morning, I waltz into the studio for Primetime DC dressed to the nines. One thing Mom taught me from a young age was that you feel as good as you dress. If you look good, you usually feel good.
I’m in a lightweight tangerine midi dress with a belt and block heels as I strut into the studio and earn a few passing compliments. I’ve pulled my hair into a low bun and left my bangs out with some longer tendrils to frame my face.
For most of the day, I’m in meetings and rehearsal for this evening’s broadcast. Being a studio-based anchor is different than a field reporter. It’s taken me a while to adjust, but I’m finally growing used to cohosting my own hour-long news show.
I’m on my way to makeup when executive producer Joe Germanotta calls out to me.
“Portia, there you are!” he says, speed-walking toward me. “Short notice change. We need you on location to cover the Dominion Honors Gala.”
My brows knit together. “But Barry was going to do it? He does it every year.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he snaps impatiently. “Unfortunately, Barry being Barry, decided it was a good idea to get plastered off two bottles of champagne and some shots at the bar counter of the Monarch. The gala’s fault for paying for open bar and bottomless champagne for this event. And if there’s one thing an alchy like Barry Bexley can’t resist, it’s an endless supply of alcohol.
“We’re in the middle of a publicity meltdown trying to get him up to a room in the Monarch away from the fifty other fucking media companies present for the event! You think ANC needs the scandal of one of its lead anchors being caught shit-faced in front of every power player in DC? Get your ass to make-up and then down to the Monarch Hotel, Portia! I’m not asking. You’re covering the event for ANC now.”
Before I’ve digested everything he’s said, he’s rushed off as quickly as he appeared. It’s true that it’s an open secret that my cohost Barry Bexley has a serious drinking problem (he’s had two DUIs under his belt in seven years), but being an otherwise polished, middle-aged White man in the news media, he’s fared pretty well. Despite his numerous scandals, he’s managed to keep his show Primetime DC (and had a carousel of female cohosts in and out over the years).
Since he’s basically the face of the network, he’s usually the one who gets selected to attend all the big and flashy public events like the Dominion Honors Gala.
If they’re throwing me in his place—the latest new, bright, young female cohost, it must be really bad.
But as I hurry to the dressing rooms to change my outfit for the event, I’m hardly enthused to be attending.
The Dominion Honors Gala is some fancy, elitist, $25,000 a plate dinner where billionaires, international CEOs, media moguls, politicians from Capitol Hill and foreign diplomats come together to celebrate visionaries shaping the future.
In reality, the Dominion Honors Gala is a smokescreen for backdoor lobbying, power-brokering and global deal-making.
Ass-kissers like Barry might enjoy attending these kind of public engagements, granted exclusive access as a member of the press corp, but I prefer to focus my time on real journalism.
The team in the dressing room already has an outfit picked out for me. I’m slipped into a midnight navy silk column gown with a high neckline and slits up the side. The sleeveless cut shows off my shoulders as well as back, and once I’m in my stilettos for the night, I look damn near ten feet tall.
…or at least that’s how I feel.
My hair’s done in a sleek, low chignon, bangs and loose tendrils framing my face, and the makeup artist gives me a bold berry lip and a polished, radiant soft-glam look.
Half an hour later, I’m rushing out of the studio with my team. I have my press credentials tucked into the clutch that matches my gown, just in case the badge is necessary. It’s not like I’m Barry, who could walk into one of these events and be recognized at a glance.
From the first step inside the ballroom of the Monarch Hotel, it’s clear the event is exactly what I thought: it’s a flashy show of wealth, prestige and power. All from behind the thin veil of champagne flutes and charitable smiles.
The room is like a cathedral in size with soaring ceilings and intricate crown-molded walls bathed in golden light cast by diamond-cut chandeliers. There’s a sea of men in tailored tuxedos and women in fashionable gowns, sipping on their drinks and chatting away.
I scan the room and notice several recognizable faces. Political rivals laugh like old friends while billionaire philanthropists and tech giants trade words. Media representatives from other stations have stars in their eyes as they engage with everyone they can.
Waitstaff move in synchronized silence, offering truffle canapés and foie gras toast among other delicately prepared h’orderves.
It’s funny that a room could be so full of people yet feel so empty. A feeling that creeps over me as soon as I find myself standing among them.
But this is what I thought I wanted. Leave my life in Newport behind and come to DC to advance my journalism career, yet it’s never felt more wrong…
“There she is!”
I look over at the man approaching with wide open arms and a broad grin, and recognize him immediately.
Charles “Chuck” Whitmore is the head of content for the American News Channel. Basically, my boss’s boss’s boss.
He’s a fifty-something-year-old with no hair, bulging eyes and a narrow, lined face that’s more lizard than man. He strides toward me like we’re old friends, giving me an embrace that’s probably not so work appropriate.
I quickly draw back and put some space between us. “Mr. Whitmore, Joe didn’t mention you’d be here tonight.”
…though I shouldn’t be surprised.
“It’s Chuck, doll,” he answers with a short laugh. “And miss the Dominion Honors Gala? Never in a million years.”
“This is my first time attending.”
He gives an enthusiastic nod between sips of his champagne. “Right, he told me you’re taking Barry’s spot. Well, what do you think?”
“Uh…” I stammer, thinking quickly. “It’s… uh, well put together.”
Apparently, this is a hilarious comment to make—Chuck Whitmore slaps his thigh as he roars with laughter, some of his champagne swishing over the side of his flute.
“Joe was right about you!” he says, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re refreshing. Must be that Newport background. But you’re right—it is well put together. Do you understand why, Portia?”
“Most galas are…”
“More than most galas.” He sidles closer, eliminating the space between us that I created. His voice drops a level ’til the buzz of conversation almost drowns him out. “We have interests to protect. Once you reach a certain level, you have to play by certain rules. You get it, don’t you?”
“Actually, I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I say bluntly, leaning away from him. “Our job is to report the news.”
He laughs again, then slops down more champagne. “Right. Within reason, of course. Can’t have certain people looking bad. It might have been different in Newport, but you’re in the major leagues now. We’ve seen your work—some charming little pieces you reported on.”
“I reported on more than ‘charming little pieces’. I was investigating important matters like the organized crime in our city!”
“Sure you did, doll,” he says. “And it was real impressive how hard you tried. But that’s behind you now. ANC has no interest in that kind of fodder. We’re much more… bigger picture.”
“It wasn’t fodder!” I snap, heat flushing to my face. “It was real world events! Real crime families trying to take over Newport and hurting innocent citizens.”
“You misunderstand what I’m saying.” He extends his hand to pat my shoulder, but I promptly smack it away and take a wide step back.
“I heard exactly what you said! You’ve basically admitted your curating the content ANC reports on!”
Chuck glances around as several people within earshot notice our conversation’s grown heated. The wide grin he’s worn drops from his face and he says, “Lower your voice, doll. You’re causing a scene.”
“I’ll cause a scene if it means drawing attention to the fact that you just told me you cover up organized crime. Tell me, Chuck , which crime family has you in their back pocket?” I ask in a sharp tone. “Actually, don’t tell me. I’m sure if I dug around enough, I could find out myself. And call me doll one more time, you’re getting a knee to the groin! It might be time to find a replacement for Barry’s replacement. I’m out of here!”
Pivoting on my stiletto heel, I stride off toward the double doors of the ballroom. Several more people have stopped in the middle of their conversation to aim scandalized looks at me, gaping with wide-eyed blinks and slack jaws, like they’ve never seen someone so uncouth.
But I don’t give a damn. Even if it means I’m fired. Even if it means I’ll never work in an official capacity in media again.
I’d rather walk on glass than ever stomach another condescending, demeaning conversation with Chuck Whitmore, or anyone else like him.
I’m turning the corner into the hall outside the ballroom when I collide with someone much taller and sturdier than I am. My balance is wiped out as I teeter in my heels, about to fall flat on my ass. But then large, strong hands clamp shut around my arms and hold me steady.
Familiar notes of a spicy, woody cologne inundates me all at once. A scent I’ve smelled dozens of times.
My eyes flick up to meet the dark, penetrative gaze of a man I’m more than just familiar with. It’s the same man I’d started to envision a future with; the same man I’d started to fall for in a way I didn’t think was possible after Lincoln…
Rafael Calderone stares down at me, as handsome and polished as ever in his all-black suit and tie, appearing out of nowhere like a ghost from my not-so-distant past.
My heart practically stops beating inside my chest as we hold each other’s gaze and I question if I’m dreaming.
“Hello, dolcezza .”