Page 30 of Deal with the Devil
A surreal feeling washes over me. It’s the first time I’ve been in Sicily since the free vacation I went on with Jayla. I had no idea how my life would change forever. I never imagined I’d return two years later seeking answers about the man I thought I was falling in love with…
Taxis line the curb outside the airport, waiting to transport passengers anywhere in Sicily. A tubby man vaguely reminiscent of Fero waves me over as soon as he notices me.
“Dove, bella?”
My cheeks warm at his complimentary tone. “Can you… um, take me here? In Ragusa?”
I fumble with my phone to show him the address of the small boutique hotel where I’ll be staying. He nods his head fervently, then takes my carry-on suitcase to load it into the trunk.
“Viaggiare da solo?” he asks, peering at me in the rearview mirror. He seems to remember a second later I don’t speak Italian, because he switches to English. “Traveling alone?”
“Actually, no,” I fib, smiling politely. “I’m here with friends.”
“Aha!” he chuckles. “Girl’s trip!”
I laugh, the sound just as polite as my smile. “Something like that.”
As far as I’m concerned, no one needs to know why I’m in Sicily. I haven’t even told Jayla yet… or really decided if I will.
It could be too risky. Rafael’s probably realized I’m missing by now.
We spent the night together, and honestly? It was one of the best nights we’d ever had together. It was tense and tinged by hurt feelings from our breakup. But one thing became clear to me as the night wore on: we still cared about each other.
Rafael’s infatuation was rooted in the deep affection he had for me. My feelings for him hadn’t really gone anywhere either; I had to consciously fight myself all night long, reminding myself I had to do what I had to do.
No matter how I feel about him, I have to know the truth. What happens once I do, I’m not even sure…
Allison Sigler provided the match I needed to light the fire. I left the botanical gardens aware of where I needed to go. The items belonging to her uncle all traced back to Sicily, which happened to be where Rafael Calderone was born.
It also happened to be where the Bellucci family originated from.
I’m still undecided whether I think Rafael is simply affiliated with the mafia family or if it’s so much worse. If he could possibly be…
“Here you are, bella,” says the cab driver. He slowly brakes outside a modest little crumbly building with a clothesline dangling outside the second story window. “This is you.”
He meets me at the back, hoisting my carry-on bag out of the trunk. I turn toward the little hotel where I’ll be laying my head down for the next few nights as I investigate Rafael and the Belluccis.
The photos on the booking website might need to be updated. They seem like they were taken ten or fifteen years ago. The squat building appears less like a hotel and more like a private residence with the clothes hanging out to dry and the house slippers left out front. I roll my suitcase alongside me as I reach for the brass handle and tug the tall, heavy door open.
I’m barely halfway through the doorway when I’m accosted by a small, round woman more than a head shorter than me.
“Eccoti qui. Ti stavo aspettando. Ho già preparato la tua stanza. Vieni con me e te la mostro.”
She takes my hand like we’re familiar with each other and then begins leading me through the cramped front desk area of the small hotel. A shaggy dog with his tongue out rushes toward us, curious and eager for attention from what he perceives as a potential new playmate. Before I can even think to pet him, the woman is swatting him away.
“No Luca! Scappa!” she scolds.
I’m led upstairs to a cramped hallway with two doors on either side. She opens the second door on the left and ushers me inside. The room is about as compact as the rest of the place, though it’s clean and neat and the bed is made up. The window overlooks the street, noises from the nearby promenade trickling in.
“Parli Italiano?” she asks.
I shake my head. “English only. Sorry.”
The woman clicks her tongue in open judgment, folding her arms over her ample bosom. “I’m Irene, your host. I live across from here,” she says in a heavy accent. “You are Portia?”
“Yes, it’s nice to meet you.”
“You stay for how long?”
