RAFAEL
“It’s time I tell you what I’ve remembered.” I sit across from Portia at the small table on our balcony, forcing myself to hold her gaze. “I had a flashback about a dinner twenty years ago. The same night as your parents’ murder.”
Her whole body stills. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”
“It took me some time to process what I was seeing. But… your father… he was there. Your adoptive father.”
“The night my parents died?”
“He was at the table with Vito and some other business associates. I remember hearing him ask about handling a problem, and Vito answering that it was already going to be handled.”
“You’re certain it was him?”
“I’m certain about the face. The voice took longer to place, but once I saw the photo on your phone, there wasn’t any doubt left.”
“Is it possible you’re misremembering? You were being inducted into the mob. You’ve said it yourself, your mind was fracturing. Memory doesn’t work like a recording. Isn’t it possible you’re conflating two different moments, or your mind filled in a face that fits the story better than the truth?”
“I’ve considered that.”
“And?”
“And I still believe what I remember.” I reach for her hand across the table. “But I understand why you’d want another explanation. I would too, in your position.”
“Maybe it was just business,” she says. “Maybe he got tangled up in it without understanding the full scope of what he’d agreed to, the way he told me on the phone.
Rich men do business with dangerous people all the time without knowing exactly what they’re capable of.
You’ve told me yourself that’s how the business world operates. ”
“It’s possible.”
“But what? You don’t believe that?”
“Dolcezza, I can only speak to what I remember.” I squeeze her hand gently. “We need more proof either way. Real proof, not just my memory and a photograph. Renee, or the records from the warehouse. Anything that tells us the truth for certain before either of us decides what it means.”
She slowly nods, an ounce of resolve returning to her expression. “We keep digging until we find more.”
When we struck against the Belluccis, we knew there would come a time when they struck back.
The attack comes at night like the fire did, the front door splintering inward before we have time to reach for weapons.
“Down!” Maurizio yells.
Men flood the small B&B, weapons raised, moving in unison.
I position myself in front of Portia instinctively, though the gun pressed against my temple a second later makes the gesture useless.
“Nobody needs to die tonight. Unless you want to test that.”
They herd us into the small common room—Portia, Jayla, Adagio, Maurizio, me, weapons trained on each of us from every angle. There’s no clear path to fighting back without somebody instantly getting killed.
Concetta’s nowhere in sight, and I force myself not to think about what that might mean, focusing instead on counting the men in the room, searching for any weakness in their formation.
Six, at minimum. Professional, disciplined, nothing like the scattered resistance we faced at the port. Maurizio catches my eye across the room, silent calculation passing between us, both searching for an opening neither of us finds.
Jayla’s pressed against Adagio’s side while Portia’s hand finds mine, gripping tight. I squeeze back, wishing I had a plan beyond stalling as long as possible.
The door swings open, and in strides Il Diavolo.
…the real man in the mask, who donned it before I ever did.
Black leather, eyeholes empty and dark, the same devil’s face that’s haunted every corner of my life since I chose this path.
Vito hasn’t donned the mask in years. Seeing him choose to do so now communicates a message of its own.
It’s a power move if there ever was one.
“Rafael,” he rasps. “You’ve been busy.”
I nod my head. “Long time no see, Don.”
“You wanted my attention,” he says. “You now have it. Though I suspect you think you have been keeping me on my toes.”
“I’d say I’ve given you a run for your money.”
Humor flickers in the mask’s gaze. “I have been three steps ahead of you from the moment you decided to betray me.”
“Did I betray you? Or did I discover the truth?”
“The truth was in front of you all along—you have simply been too weak-minded to handle it,” he explains in his wheezy voice. “Your mind was so fragile, it could not take the weight of the mask, Rafael. But you were told all along what would happen. That you would become this.”
“I was seventeen. You really think I understood the weight of what you put on me?”
“See. Weak,” he sneers. He turns his cold gaze to Portia at my side. “You have been searching for answers too, yes? Wondering about that night that changed your life forever? You should ask your father.”
“I would but you killed him!” Portia growls, glaring hard.
“Silly woman. I meant the father who took you in.”
“Why would I trust anything you have to say?”
“Because he knew what I was capable of. He knew what deal he was striking. If business was to flourish, we could not afford any journalists sticking their nose where it didn’t belong.”
“You’re suggesting that Jerrod James—the man who took me in—helped plot my birth father’s murder? And you expect me to believe you?”
“I see why you have a fascination with her, Rafael. She is also weak. But the truth remains, and that truth is money rules the world. People will do anything for it. A man could be your best friend until he is standing in the way of profit. Then he is your mortal enemy, and you will do what you must to eliminate him.”
Portia’s eyes are glassy as they find mine, and I can sense her sheer confusion at what she’s hearing. She hadn’t wanted to believe the truth about her adoptive father, but Don Vito’s left no choice.
“It is time we stop these charades and put an end to this resistance,” he says. He motions at his men to hurry us along. “We’ll see how long any of you last now that I’m no longer holding back.”