Chapter 3 - Rafael
“Newport is yours,” Adagio says with an impressed nod and sip of his bourbon. “But now that you’ve conquered the city. What’s next? The country?”
We’re seated at the cigar lounge Il Salotto Nero, otherwise known as the Black Parlor in English. It’s a member’s only club located in one of Newport’s more aristocratic neighborhoods. A mere half block down from the Newport Plaza, Il Salotto Nero is perhaps one of the most exclusive places in the city. Hidden behind an unmarked mahogany door, the lounge is invitation only.
Almost exclusively used by the rich and powerful to conduct dealings too unsavory for anywhere else.
The lounge makes for the perfect atmosphere to do so—rich wood paneling and black-and-gold wallpaper cover the walls, lit up by amber-hued sconces and green glass banker lamps at every table. The floor itself is comprised of a dozen-odd tables and plenty of plush leather armchairs, all hazed in curls of cigar smoke. It’s dark, moody and luxurious, which is all anyone visiting needs.
As Adagio speaks, I nurse my own drink. I’m sipping on some Grappa, an Italian-based grape brandy that reminds me of home.
I’m due for a trip back to Sicily soon. Don Vito and the others expect it of me.
But Adagio is correct when he says I’ve taken over the city. The past four months have been some of the most profitable months in the Bellucci family’s reign, and it’s all been thanks to me. The new psychedelic we launched onto the market known as Nectar has been a runaway smash success. We’ve expanded from selling in clubs to supplying numerous private wholesale buyers and even other territories in the city.
And we’re only getting started—the mycologists on my payroll are in the process of developing an even stronger version of the drug. Nation-wide domination doesn’t sound half bad.
“We’ll see,” I answer finally, remaining cryptic. “I have many other ventures to explore.”
Adagio grins. “Il Diavolo won’t be happy ’til he rules the world.”
“The Tucos refuse to accept it,” Maurizio chimes in. My brutal, brooding lead enforcer sits in the third armchair, foregoing a drink and indulging only in a cigar. Famously nicknamed Ice Pick for a vicious takedown of fifteen men singlehandedly with nothing more than the sharp tool used as a weapon, he likes to remain sober when out in public. Even places as discreet as Il Salotto Nero. He puffs on his cigar and blows out more smoke. “They still believe they have a fighting chance.”
“I would too if I were as delusional as Titus Tuco,” laughs Adagio. “You see that hair piece he wears? As if Stevie Wonder can’t tell it’s a toupee.”
A half grin forms at the corner of my mouth. “You would resort to insulting his looks.”
“But am I lying?” he asks. “If you’re losing your hair, then call it a day. Shave the shit off.”
“What would you be without your hair, belloccio ?” Maurizio asks. “Would women like Jayla still throw themselves at you?”
“Yes, leccaculo , because I’m charming. Try it sometime.”
I roll my eyes as my two confidants trade barbs. It wouldn’t be the first time. Though Adagio and Maurizio work well together as a team, providing the perfect backup I need, their opposite demeanors mean they sometimes clash.
“I do have one,” Maurizio answers him. “But it involves more than flashy cars and wads of cash.”
“You mean crushing skulls?” Adagio sneers. “That’s sure to drop some panties.”
“Since when do my two lead soldiers bicker like whiny school girls?” I ask.
“We’re taking cues from our leader, Diavolo ,” Adagio says, shooting me a subtle grin over the rim of his bourbon. “Your obsession has gone nowhere since she left.”
I pin him with a cold, scolding look. “ Quando ho detto che avrei smesso di essere ossessionato ?”
“Very true,” he concedes. “You’ve accepted it’s for life.”
“If only she knew,” adds Maurizio.
“She doesn’t need to know,” I say darkly, glaring at the cigar haze circling us. “All that matters is that she’s safe and starting over. Moving on from me and her life in Newport.”
It wasn’t what I wanted, but was what was necessary.
Portia was never going to give up her investigations. Not if she still resided in Newport where la cosa nostra ran rampant. She was always going to be curious, always going to be on the lookout for the next big scoop. She admitted it herself.
Even in the aftermath of what happened at the docks, mia dolcezza was determined to bring an end to the Bellucci and Tuco crime families.
It didn’t matter how risky it was or how much danger it put her in. She would pursue answers regardless.
I had no other choice but to send her away. For her safety and my discretion.
But it doesn’t mean that every day she’s been away I haven’t thought of her. That I haven’t devised other means to… keep an eye on her.
Portia James is the only woman I will ever want. There is no other woman who could ever compare.
I simply haven’t figured out how to make our relationship work longterm; how to get Portia to overlook perhaps the biggest flaw imaginable in her eyes. That I’m more than just a renowned businessman named Rafael Calderone.
I’m the ruthless, cunning Il Diavolo from the Bellucci empire that she’s dedicated much of her career to bringing down.
She wants Il Diavolo behind bars. The last thing she wants is to fall in love with him.
There’s no simple solution to such a dilemma. If there was one, I would’ve pursued it a long time ago. So, instead, I’m left to admire mia dolcezza from afar. I’m still the violent, bloodthirsty mafia capo that would horrify her, while I’m also the lovesick man craving the woman he’s infatuated with.
I swirl the Grappa in my glass before taking another sip. “I have the Dominion Honors Gala this Friday.”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll run into her?” Adagio asks, lifting a brow. His blue eyes twinkle as he poses the question, like he already knows the answer.
I haven’t decided yet if it means I’ll run into Portia or not. It’ll be the first time in four months that we’ve been in the same city together. She’ll be within a few miles reach. The temptation is almost too much, and I haven’t even traveled to DC yet.
Will I truly be able to resist mia dolcezza once we’re in the same area?
I’ve done well keeping thoughts of her relegated to late at night, or other times I’m not deep in business or matters of the family. But that doesn’t mean she isn’t a constant lingering in the corners of my mind. The faintest hint of her—from a soft note of her perfume to an old video of hers on Metro News—is enough to make me spiral.
I’ve had to avoid all broadcasts of the American News Channel to keep from seeing her and relapsing like some drug addict.
There’s no recovering from such an affliction. My obsession with her is for life.
I swallow more Grappa, the dry, woody taste on my tongue, and finally answer his question. “She won’t be at the event. Her news channel is sending someone else to cover the event.”
Adagio and Maurizio share a quick, knowing look that I don’t bother admonishing them for. They know as well as I do how deep my fixation goes. They’re aware there’s no cure for it.
So long as I’m alive, whether as Rafael or my sinister alter ego Il Diavolo , Portia James will be the object of my desire…
* * *
Portia is flustered in my arms. She walked right into me, marching out of the ballroom at the Monarch Hotel. The Dominion Honors Gala is minutes away from starting, yet she’s fleeing as if she can’t escape the event fast enough.
As far as I know, she wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—her brown-nosing, waxy-haired cohost Barry Bexley usually represents the ANC at these kind of engagements.
I hardly wanted to attend myself, but as one of the most prominent businessmen in the world, it was too important to skip. In order to stay abreast of all the backdoor deals and initiatives being pushed, I have to be present. I have to mingle with these fucking vultures.
But as unexpected as it is to see Portia, I’m more distracted by how she looks tonight.
Though it should be no surprise, she’s the most beautiful sight to behold. The rest of the scenery melts away as she becomes the only thing I see.
Mia dolcezza puts every single woman in attendance to shame without trying.
Loose tendrils of hair frame her gorgeous oval face. Her eyes are wide and dark as they meet mine, her lashes long and thick as she blinks in shock. Lips I can still remember the feel and taste of are painted a wine red—a shade that’s become her signature—formed into the shape of a heart.
She’s wearing a navy blue dress so dark it’s almost black, the shade complimentary on her mocha complexion. It hugs her svelte figure perfectly, highlighting her slim shoulders and teasing more skin by the slit along her thigh. Her feet are strapped into stiletto heels that show off the delicate arch of them, and make me want to slide them off so I can take each foot into my hands and give her a tender massage.
Before I slowly kiss my way up the long, dark stems that are her legs. Before I let my hungry desire take over and I consume her whole.
These are the type of thoughts that invade my head the second I see her. I can’t even begin to pretend like I don’t want her, like I’m over her in the wake of our break up.
How can I when she’s the woman of my dreams? That won’t ever change.
The pause between us ends and we both snap back to reality.
Portia tugs her arms free of my grip. She takes half a step back, every breath drawn difficult. I tuck both hands back into my pants pockets.
“I have to be honest,” I say. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
She shakes her head and drops her gaze from mine. “I can’t believe this.”
“But I’m happy that you are,” I go on. “You look gorgeous tonight.”
“Rafael, save it! Save the compliments, the flattery, all the flirting. I’m not interested.”
“You’re upset. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She’s about to turn away when I make my request. It’s revolting enough for her that she rounds back toward me and glares. The shock she’d worn so freely only seconds ago has vanished for intense anger and resentment.
It’s the same look she’d given me when I first turned up at Metro News.
I understand where it comes from—I hurt her after I promised I wouldn’t. I made her think my intentions were pure and then I left a note on the nightstand telling her we should breakup and encouraging her to take the job at Primetime DC.
She hates me… and I can’t say it isn’t deserved.
“Look, dolcezza ?—”
“Don’t call me that!” she snipes instantly. “Don’t ever call me that again!”
“Portia,” I correct somberly. “I deserve your anger. I understand that. Be as furious with me as you need to be.”
She lets out a sound that’s a cross between a scoff and a laugh. “Oh, you understand? Is that so, Rafael? You mean you get what you did was fucked up? You get you proved every preconceived notion I had was true? That my reservations were correct from the start? You’re nothing but a player… a fucking asshole who gets off on making women lower their defenses and fall for you! You’re just like every other man out there! You use, you take, you manipulate, then you grow bored and move onto the next one! God, I was so fucking stupid for falling for it a second time. How could I be so naive?!”
A few others in the hall glance over at us, but Portia doesn’t seem to care. It seems she’s already had it for the night.
The way she strode out of the ballroom indicates this isn’t the first thing to set her off.
My chest aches from her accusations, though deep down I’m aware they’re consequences of the choice I made. When I decided to write that letter, I knew what she would think. I knew the damage could be irreparable.
“Is that what you think? That I was playing you? That none of it was real?”
“What am I supposed to think?” she shoots back, nostrils flaring. “You said you’d never make me a fool again… and what did you do? You proved I was wrong for ever giving you a second chance! I should’ve known you get off on it—making women fall for you and then moving onto the next one!”
“There hasn’t been another woman since.”
She opens her mouth for a rebuttal, then clamps it shut when she processes what I’ve said. A flicker of uncertainty passes over her face and she takes another half step back. I’ve thrown off the speech she’s had rehearsed in her head from the moment we broke up.
I press forward, countering her reaction by taking a step toward her.
“You’re the woman for me, Portia,” I say in a frank tone. “After Sicily, I waited for you. Every day of that year and a half we were apart, you were on my mind. And I’ll wait for you now. For a better time when we can be together. But if you expect me to say I regret that letter I wrote you—if I regret letting you go like I did—then no. I won’t pretend I do. Because I made the right decision for us both. You may not understand it right now, but it was in your best interest that I let you go.”
She’s dazed, remaining silent for a long moment as she blinks, swallows, glances elsewhere at things like the passing waitstaff or crown molding on the walls. All subtle reactions that tells me she doesn’t know what to think or say.
Finally, she shakes her head and lets out a shuddering breath.
“It’s not your place to decision what’s in my best interests,” she croaks, then takes another step back. “Even if I believed you, I refuse to play this game, Rafael. I refuse to let you come and go when you want. I wanted a committed, longterm relationship. Not some on-and-off game where we play cat and mouse. I’m… I’m better off without you. And… don’t expect me to ever give you another chance.”
“You’re right,” I admit, withdrawing a hand from my pocket to scrub my beard. “I’m not sure I deserve another chance. If some other man swooped in and snatched you up… I’d have no one else to blame but myself.”
…not that I’d ever allow him to.
“But,” I continue, “you should know you’re still on my mind. I still think of you everyday. And my feelings for you… have gone nowhere.”
She folds her arms tightly across her chest and diverts her gaze to the ground beneath our feet.
“What’s on your mind?” I press. “You were marching out of the ballroom. Tell me and I’ll fix it.”
“You mean like how I’m probably fired after I went off on Chuck Whitmore? He thought my career in Newport was a joke and expects me to be some smiling bimbo while he buries the real news?” she rants out of frustration. “I don’t need you to fix my problems. I don’t need you to rescue me or make decisions for me. I make them on my own… and that’s how I want it.”
My expression darkens, not because she’s mad I’ve offered to help. But because of what she’s said before that—Chuck Whitmore was giving her a hard time. Regardless of if we’re together and regardless if she likes my interference, no one gives my woman trouble. I’ll be addressing Chuck in my own way…
“I’m sure you’re not fired,” I say instead. “You’re passionate about what you do. You should be. It’s important work.”
“Chuck disagrees. Anyway, I’m not venting to you. We can’t do this… this isn’t supposed to happen.”
“But I’d like to keep in touch,” I say earnestly. “You have my number. If you ever wanted to talk… even if it’s just text?—”
“I don’t,” she snaps. “We’re through, Rafael. You’ve fooled me for the last time. You go back to your world. I’ll go back to mine. Enjoy your time in DC.”
Portia pivots sharply on her heel like she’d done when first trying to flee, and then strides off without a single look back.
I sigh and watch her go. Portia is correct to rebuff any attempt I make at patching things up, even if it’s just to keep in touch. She’s right that I hurt her when I promised I wouldn’t, no matter what my justification was for doing so.
But she’s wrong that it’s over between us. It’ll never truly be over, because she doesn’t yet understand the man she’s dealing with. She doesn’t get the extent of my infatuation with her, nor has she accepted how she’s drawn to me in the same way.
For now, time and space may keep us apart. The same reasonings like her safety and my true identity might prevent us from being together.
These are temporary road blocks for the inevitable.
Portia James is my woman, and there’s not a damn thing she can ever do to change that. It’s only a matter of time before we’re reunited. And before I find a way for us to be together for good this time.