Page 24 of Devil Among Men

I nod slowly, the fear I’ve been holding back rushing in at once.

Whatever my father’s told himself to sleep at night these past two decades, I have a sinking feeling the real story is far worse than anything he admitted tonight.

Jayla curls up beside me on the bed, resting her head against my shoulder like she used to when we were kids. “Whatever it turns out to be, we’ll get through it together as sisters. The way we always have.”

“I keep thinking about every birthday or holiday or family dinner,” I say. “How much of it was real, Jayla? How much of our childhood was just him managing a guilty conscience?”

“All of it was real. At least our happiness was. Nobody can take that away from us.”

“I want to believe that too.”

“Who’s stopping you, sissy? Both things can be true. You can love Dad and our childhood while also wanting to get to the truth.” She nudges me in the side before standing. “I’m going to bed. Turns out when you have a mild concussion, you get a lot of headaches.”

She leaves us alone, and Rafael hardly waits before he claims me for himself. He eases me into his arms, and I happily oblige, dropping my head to his chest.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “your dad really could be telling the truth. It’s possible everything else that’s happened had nothing to do with him. It’s possible there’s more to the story that he doesn’t even know.”

I close my eyes, letting his heartbeat anchor me, unwilling to face the rest of what tomorrow will demand of me.

12

RAFAEL

Concetta sets out a proper spread for once, roasted lamb and fresh bread, a rare break from the simple meals we’ve survived on since the fire. Maurizio, Adagio, and two of the men gather around the table with me, the first real meal all of us have shared together since before the port operation. My body’s finally caught up to the rest of me—the wound healed enough now that I barely notice it except on the coldest mornings—and it feels good, sitting here upright and whole among men who fought alongside me and lived.

“To Enzo,” Maurizio says, raising his glass. The rest of us echo it, a ritual we’ve kept up every few nights since we lost him.

The meal settles into casual conversation. One of the soldiers, a wiry younger man named Dario, telling a story about a job gone sideways years back involving a stolen truck and a very unimpressed farmer. Adagio needles him about the details until the whole table’s laughing despite everything hanging over us, and for a while it feels almost normal, almost like the version of this life I used to believe I understood before Portia walked into it and complicated everything I thought I knew about loyalty and love.

I reach for the bread, tearing off a piece, and the motion of my hand catches on a memory buried deep enough that I nearly drop the bread entirely, the smell of rosemary rising off the roasted lamb dragging it closer to the surface.

“You good?” Maurizio asks.

“Fine.” I set the bread down slowly, an old unease crawling up my spine without explanation. “Just tired.”

He doesn’t press, though I catch him sneaking another glance before returning to his own plate.

The unease doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens as the meal continues, the smell of rosemary and roasted meat dragging me away from the present.

A long dining room, wood-paneled, candlelight throwing shadows across a table set for twelve. I’m seventeen, seated near the far end where the men who matter least get put, close enough to hear everything, far enough that nobody expects me to speak. A silver platter of lamb sits untouched at the table’s center, the rosemary smell thick enough to coat the back of my throat.

Vito sits at the head, wine glass loose in his hand, laughing at a joke one of the older capos just made. Beside him, a man I don’t recognize leans in close, voice pitched low enough I have to strain to catch the words.

“The situation with the reporter,” the man says. “It needs handling before it becomes a liability.”

“It’ll be handled in a few hours,” Vito replies. “The husband’s been a problem for months. Digging where he shouldn’t. The wife knows too much by proximity alone.”

“And the girls?”

Vito’s mouth curves. “The girls are a separate matter.”

I don’t understand what discussions are being had, and as the new fish in the Bellucci pond, I don’t question it.

I’m seventeen, hungry to prove myself, and trained not to ask questions about business that isn’t mine.

I go back to my plate, clueless how the events of the night would shape things for years to come…

I press my palm flat against the table, grounding myself with the wood grain under my fingers, forcing the memory back down before it fully surfaces.