Rafael
Maurizio’s already at the table when Portia and I come in, maps and notes spread out in the same organized chaos he’s kept since the villa.
He glances up, and I catch the flicker of hesitation cross his face the second he registers Portia’s taken a seat rather than hovering near the door the way she used to during these meetings.
“She’s sitting in now,” I say, before he can ask. “Officially.”
“We talked about this.” Maurizio’s jaw tightens slightly, though his tone stays level, professional. “No offense, Portia. It’s not personal.”
“None taken.” She meets his eyes steadily. “You’re worried I’m a liability.”
“I’m worried you’re untrained in a world that doesn’t forgive mistakes.” He glances at me. “Rafael, you’re barely three days off a gunshot wound. We don’t have room for more variables right now.”
“She’s not a variable. She’s an asset.” I lower myself carefully into the chair across from him, the wound still pulling with every movement, though I refuse to let the discomfort show more than necessary. “We agreed on this.”
Maurizio studies me for a long moment; some old, unspoken argument passing silently between us before he finally nods, conceding the point without fully embracing it. “Fine. What have we got?”
“Not enough.” I spread my hands over the map, tracing the outline of Vito’s known territory.
“We know he’s rebuilding after the port.
We know Anthony Jr.’s taking on more responsibility, which means Vito’s grooming him for a larger role in the family.
What we don’t know is where he’s actually vulnerable. ”
“We know his temper’s shorter than it used to be too,” Maurizio adds, marking a spot near the eastern edge of the territory map. “Word from a contact in Palermo says he’s been erratic since the port. Snapping at men who’ve served him for years. A man that unsettled makes mistakes eventually.”
“Mistakes we can’t wait around for.” I tap the table, impatient despite the ache still radiating from my side. “We need a direct move. Pressure on his finances, his supply lines, anything that forces his hand rather than waiting for his temper to do the work for us.”
“His finances,” Portia says.
Both of us look at her.
“I did deep dives on shell companies tied to the Belluccis back before any of this started. Before I even knew Rafael.” She pulls a folded paper from her bag, sliding it across the table.
Old notes, printed and worn at the edges, she’s clearly carried through every version of this nightmare since the beginning. “One of the companies traced back to an address in Ragusa. I went there myself actually. Alone, before I understood what I was really walking into.”
Maurizio leans forward, studying the paper. “You have documentation on Vito’s financial network?”
“I have documentation on parts of it. It’s outdated now, probably, but it’s a start.” She taps the paper. “Money launders somewhere. If we can trace where Vito’s rebuilding his finances after losing that shipment, we find a pressure point that doesn’t require anyone getting shot.”
I watch her lay it all out, methodical, precise; none of the hesitation I half expected given how new this world still is to her.
There’s a version of this woman I met back in Newport who chased down mob financials for a five o’clock broadcast, and watching that same skill turned toward saving both our lives instead of just reporting on someone else’s tragedy pulls a tightness into my chest I don’t fully understand yet.
Pride tangled up with an old, stubborn fear I’m still learning to set down.
“It’s not enough on its own,” Maurizio says, though his tone shifts, less dismissive now, more genuinely engaged. “Old records only tell us where the money used to move. Not where it’s moving now.”
“I know someone who might know. A source I cultivated years ago. Low-level bookkeeper, worked adjacent to one of the shell companies I was investigating. She talked to me once, off the record, scared enough of losing her own neck that she’d never go fully on record. But she talked.”
“You think she’d talk again?”
“I think if I approach it right, framed as journalism instead of anything connected to Rafael directly, she might.” Portia leans forward, some of Maurizio’s earlier skepticism visibly cracking under the weight of an actual plan taking shape.
“She doesn’t know I’m involved with any of this.
As far as she knows, I’m still an investigative reporter chasing a story. That’s exactly what I’d be to her.”
“That’s a real risk. If she talks to anyone about it—“
“She won’t. She’s more scared of the Belluccis than she is curious about a phone call from an old contact.” Portia holds my gaze. “I know how to handle sources, Rafael. This is what I trained for. Let me do the part of this war I’m actually equipped to fight.”
Maurizio glances between the two of us, his usual guardedness easing up. “If the source pans out and we cross-reference it against the old shell company data, we might actually get a real picture of where Vito’s rebuilding. That’s worth pursuing.”
“You’re agreeing with her.”
“I’m agreeing the plan has merit.” Maurizio’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, rare enough on him that it catches me off guard. “Doesn’t mean I’ve stopped worrying. Just means I recognize a good move when I see one.”
“Where’s the bookkeeper now?” I ask. “Still in Newport?”
“Last I knew. Working for a shipping logistics company I always suspected was one of the Belluccis’ cleaner fronts.
” Portia pulls out a second sheet, this one with a name and an old phone number scrawled across it in handwriting I recognize as her own hurried, professional shorthand.
“Her name’s Renee. I’ll need to reach out carefully.
Can’t spook her and definitely can’t let her know how personal this has become for me. ”
“You’ll do it by phone?” Maurizio asks.
“Phone first. If she’s willing to talk further, maybe a video call, whatever feels closest to a normal follow-up instead of an interrogation.” Portia taps the paper twice, decisive. “I know how to make people comfortable enough to talk. That’s the whole job.”
Maurizio studies her another moment before nodding, some final piece of resistance in him finally settling. “Do it your way. But keep me looped in on every contact. If anything about this feels wrong, you tell me immediately. Not after. Immediately.”
“Understood.”
“And Portia,” Maurizio says, “for what it’s worth, I’ve underestimated people before and paid for it. I don’t intend to make that mistake with you.”
It’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever heard out of him, and Portia seems to recognize it too, offering him a small, genuine nod rather than making a bigger deal out of the moment than it needs to be.
The meeting breaks up an hour later, Maurizio heading out to relay instructions to the men, leaving Portia and me alone with the map still spread across the table between us.
“You did good in there,” I tell her, meaning it more than the simple words probably convey.
“I know.” She smiles, though there’s real exhaustion underneath it, the toll of finally being taken seriously after weeks of fighting for exactly this. “You looked surprised, though. Even after everything.”
“Not surprised you’re capable. Surprised how much it still scares me, watching you step into this.
” I reach for her hand across the table, old protective instinct warring against everything I promised her in that hospital-adjacent bedroom three nights ago.
“I meant what I said. I trust you. Doesn’t mean the fear goes away. ”
“It’s not supposed to go away entirely.” She squeezes my hand, understanding in a way I didn’t expect her to. “I’m scared too, Rafael. Every single day. Doesn’t mean I stop moving forward.”
I study her a long moment, this woman who’s rebuilt an entire life around a war she never asked to fight, who’s turned grief and fear into a weapon sharp enough to actually help win it. “When do you want to reach out to your source?”
“Tomorrow. No reason to wait.” She gathers her old notes, tucking them carefully back into her bag. “The sooner we know where Vito’s rebuilding, the sooner we can act instead of just reacting to whatever he throws at us next.”
I nod, though the wound aches sharply as I shift in my chair, a reminder I’m still not fully healed, still not back to full strength for whatever comes after this intel actually surfaces.
“Rest,” Portia says, catching the wince I try to hide. “You’re still recovering. Let me handle tomorrow.”
“I don’t like sitting on the sidelines.”
“I know.” Her expression softens. “But you taught me a lesson, back in that hospital-adjacent bedroom. Trust goes both ways. Trust me to handle this part.”
I don’t have an argument for that, not really, not after everything we’ve fought to get to this exact point.
I think about how far we’ve both come since the terrace argument that opened this entire war.
Her demanding I stop treating her like glass, me finally learning how to hand her real trust instead of protection dressed up as love.
There’s a version of me, from not so long ago, who would have locked her in this room out of fear alone and called it love.
I’m grateful, in a way that still catches me off guard, that she never let me become that version of myself permanently.
“Okay,” I say finally. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” she echoes, already reaching for her phone, already three steps ahead into a plan I can only hope keeps her safe enough for both of us to see whatever comes next.
I watch her cross the room toward the window, phone in hand, rehearsing under her breath the exact tone she’ll need tomorrow to coax a frightened woman into trusting her again.
Whatever fear I still carry about the danger she’s stepping into, I recognize now that it’s mine to manage, not hers to shrink around.
She built a career learning how to survive men far more dangerous than a nervous bookkeeper. It’s long past time I let her prove it.