Page 8 of Tempted By the Devil

As seconds pass us by, it becomes more clear I’m the one he’s watching.

Unsure how else to respond, I blink and then look away. I force myself to tune back into the conversation going on around the table. Anthony is telling Jayla about how he’s possibly the only Sicilian who prefers Newport pizza over the pizza in Sicily.

“That speaks to your taste, does it not?” Olivia quips, arching a penciled brow.

“My dear Olivia, you have married into my bloodline. What of your taste?”

A few of the others chuckle around the table.

Dinner is more enjoyable than I originally anticipated. I laugh along as the conversation bounces from topic to topic and everyone except Sofia and Maurizio are lively and engaging. Once or twice, I check the balcony to see if the mystery man is still watching me.

But he’s gone. Vanished as if I were imagining things in the first place.

I file it away, deciding to pretend it never happened.

Once we’ve had dessert and we’re ready to go, Jayla and I excuse ourselves to the ladies’ room.

“Oh, damn. This is Finkle. I should take it.”

“Sissy, what happened to no work while on vacay?”

“He’scalling, Jayla. That means it’s important.”

We part ways, with Jayla heading into the women’s bathroom while I try to find a spot in the massive restaurant where I have cell reception. I end up stepping outside through a side door.

The night’s cool air brushes against my skin and feels refreshing after so much cigar smoke.

“Hello, Finkle? Didn’t you promise you wouldn’t call me on vacation? Finkle?” I hold out my phone in hopes of checking the number of bars on my screen. “Hello? Hello!?”

I’m stepping down the narrow passageway outside the restaurant and another building, paying little mind to where I’m going. I don’t spot the guy rapidly approaching until it’s too late.

“Ow!”

My body collides with the stone wall of the building as my phone flies out of my hand and skids to the floor. The man that’s shoved me produces a pocketknife that he quickly presses against my throat.

“Non urlare. Dammi la tua borsa.”

“I… I… I… don’t speak… I can’t… Italian…”

He makes an impatient rumbly noise, then snatches at the clutch purse dangling from my wrist. I go rigid, somehow shaking yet standing still at the same time.

“Graziebellissima,” he says, turning to run off.

But he doesn’t make it very far.

A fist slams into his face, knocking him off his feet. He crashes down on the cobblestone ground, his eyes vacant and nose spurting blood. My wristlet tumbles out of his grasp and lands in a puddle a few feet away.

I’m panting from the shock of it all, blinking wide-eyed and speechless.

I look from the mugger on the ground to the man who knocked his lights out. The same man who had stood on the balcony earlier and watched me as if I were the most fascinating sight in the world.

He holds out his hand—the same hand he used to punch the mugger—to introduce himself.

“Hello,dolcezza. Rafael Calderone.”

3

PORTIA

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