Page 4 of Devil Among Men

“Don’t drag me into this,” she says, a small smile tugging at her lips.

I catch Portia watching the table too, an unreadable flicker in her eyes.

“Fine, we want conversation. I have a few ideas,” Portia says with a clear of her throat. “What exactly is the plan for our future? How are we going to handle the Belluccis, you know, considering they control almost all of Sicily?”

Adagio casts me a look that warns he might crack a joke to distract from the questions at hand. His way of jumping in at my defense.

I remain composed, setting down my knife and fork and taking a sip from my glass of wine. It’s only a slight pause that gives me a second or two to think up how to answer Portia’s questions without turning dinner into another sparring match.

“We’ve discussed this,” I say coolly. “We’re in the intel-gathering phase. The plan is to figure out a way to dismantle the Bellucci empire from the outside in.”

“That sounds amazing on paper,” Portia counters. “But how are we going to do that?”

“You’re not going to do anything. You and Jayla are not involved.”

“We became involved the second we became fugitives of the United States government.”

“I’m a fugitive,” I say plainly. “You’re viewed as my captive—and you are, as far as anybody’s concerned. You’re innocent and, therefore, not involved.”

“Protecting me again. Noble concept, Rafael. Except for when you’re keeping important things from me… like my parents’ death.”

“Portia—”

“You can try to rationalize it all you want, but this isn’t just your life at stake. Ours are too. Why don’t you seem to understand that?”

I can’t bring myself to answer her question. It dies on arrival as the others seated around the table exchange looks and busy themselves with their food and drink.

A moment of tense silence goes by where nobody dares challenge it.

Portia stands before dessert even arrives, chair scraping against stone, muttering that she’s tired before heading toward the staircase.

I don’t follow. At least not yet. She made herself clear enough this morning, and pushing now would only prove her right about the parts of me that don’t know how to leave well enough alone.

It’s well past midnight by the time I finally head upstairs myself, the villa engulfed in silence, only the waves at sea filling the night air.

Portia’s door is closed when I pass it, no light bleeding out from underneath.

I hover outside her room a moment longer than appropriate, tempted to knock and ask for a private word. Then I force myself to keep walking, heading down the hall to my own room.

Sleep doesn’t come easily. It rarely does anymore.

I lie still staring at the ceiling, replaying the terrace conversation in fragments, turning over everything I could have said differently and didn’t.

I don’t know what wakes me first: some instinct honed from years of sleeping with one eye open, or the unnatural acrid smell polluting the air.

I sit up, senses sharpening as I realize the stench isn’t part of my imagination. My instincts aren’t firing off for no reason either; they’ve alerted me because something’s wrong.

Smoke.

Faint, but unmistakable, drifting in from underneath my door.

3

RAFAEL

Smoke.

I don’t need a second to figure out what it means. I’m across the room and hauling the door open before I’ve fully processed the thought, and the hallway confirms it; gray haze floating along the ceiling, that acrid burn invading my throat, and somewhere below, past the stairs, the first flicker of orange licking up against the dark.