Page 107 of Deal with the Devil
But as we descend into the tunnel, she’s fearlessly by my side.
We climb down the damp steel rungs as the world above goes silent. The last thing I hear before the hatch slams shut behind us is the voice of an officer screaming orders, followed by the pounding of feet in the lobby.
Portia’s hand finds mine in the dark. Together we press forward, unsure what fate will meet us on the other end.
29
PORTIA
FOUR WEEKS LATER…
The morning lightslips in through gauzy curtains, its warmth stretching across the stone floor in slow-moving shadows that ripple each time the sea breeze blows in.
I lie still, tangled in linen sheets that smell vaguely of him, and listen to the distant sounds of splashing waves rolling inland.
It’s a quiet, peaceful sort of way to start my day. Something completely different from what my life was only a few weeks ago. Even more different from what my life was as field reporter Portia James working for Metro News in Newport, before I ever met Rafael Calderone or discovered the true identity of Il Diavolo.
But as I reach across the bed before I’ve even opened my eyes, I can’t say I regret a thing. I’ve probably cried more tears, felt more fear, lived closer to the edge than I ever have before in my life. Yet I wouldn’t change how it’s all gone down.
As crazy as it sounds, I made up my mind a long time ago that I wanted truth. But I also wantedhim.
My eyelids lift and my vision clears to find the spot in the bed next to me is empty. The pillow beside mine is creased with the shape of his head, a warm indentation still pressed into the mattress.
He was here. Not long ago.
Blinking slowly, I push myself upright, the sheet slipping down my shoulder as I turn toward the pale light filtering in. It takes me a moment to register the shape beyond the curtains—a shadow moving behind the sheer veil of white, framed by the open doors that lead to the balcony.
He’s out admiring the water again. He loves the fact that he’s been able to be closer to home.
In some way, it’s helped bring more peace to his mind, something he’s desperately needed. While Rafael’s mental state is a complex situation we’re still dealing with, escaping Newport allowed him to regain more control over his consciousness again.
I’ve insisted on professional help. He’s begun seeing a psychologist to manage his condition. There’s a long road to go, especially considering Rafael has yet to tap into what made his psyche split in the first place.
Anytime the subject is broached, he shuts down. I try not to bring it up or push him on it, hyperaware it could trigger a relapse into Il Diavolo territory.
But the truth is, there were moments of our ordeal the night we fled Newport, where I swear RafaelwasIl Diavolo—or maybe their psyches had finally merged again.
I’d become something of an expert at telling them apart, and toward the end, I sensed it was Rafael who was with me on that construction site.
…at least some part of his consciousness.
We haven’t discussed what happened between me and Il Diavolo. We haven’t talked much about any of the things that went down beside planning and strategy for how to move forward and what our next move will be.
But wehaveagreed no more secrets. No more hidden truths. We’re facing whatever comes together, good or bad.
My feet find the cool tile, the air kissing my skin as I step onto the balcony.
Rafael stands barefoot on the stone, facing the horizon where the sea stretches for what seems like forever. The morning light catches on the water and glistens almost like someone’s applied a filter.
He’s shirtless in sweatpants that hang low on his hips. His arms are thick and defined as he leans against the iron railing and watches the local ships embark on a morning sail. His dark hair, usually neat and tamed, is tousled and unruly, as if he rolled straight out of bed and into this moment.
I stop at his side. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did. Better lately… all things considered.”
My gaze lands almost involuntarily on the area beneath his collarbone where the skin is still healing, the wound angry and raw despite the weeks that have passed. The scar is puckered slightly, a jagged reminder of the bullet that tore through him not even four weeks ago.
He stepped in the way and took a bullet that could’ve—more than likely would’ve—hit me.
