Page 42 of Deal with the Devil
My teeth grind together, barely keeping me from telling him what I really want to.
Fuck off.
The limousine turns around a sharp bend in the road, tires crunching over gravel, and then there it is…
The Bellucci villa rises into view above the rolling groves. Its ocher walls catch the waning sunlight like fire-kissed stone, and the terracotta roof sprawls across multiple floor levels with an architectural grace. Cypress trees and hedges line the property on either side.
At the front is a circle driveway with a large stone fountain in the shape of two angels.
The entire property is walled in and protected.
The limousine brakes at the entrance until we’re waved through and pull up to the house. The driver’s door springs open along with the front passenger’s as the men get out to do the same for their boss.
I tear my gaze away from the window and snap my eyes shut. I can’t even bring myself to move from my seat, much less breathe.
This is it; this is what I’ve been dreading from the moment Il Diavolo showed up and we left the airport.
I’m officially his captive and there’ll be no escape.
The rear doors open and Il Diavolo slides out. Now my turn, I let out the shuddery breath I’ve been holding in.
This place might be known as the Bellucci estate. The place where they lay their head at night and they call home.
But it’s what I call my prison, and I’m already trapped inside the gates.
13
DIAVOLO
For a familythat conducts business in bloodshed, the Belluccis know how to set a beautiful table. We sit down to family dinner that night like old times.
The floor is polished to perfection. The wax drips on the brass candelabras as flames flicker bright. Floral centerpieces are strategically placed around the long dinner table along with the bone-white plates and crystal glasses the staff have put out for tonight’s meal.
Olivia wanders in first after I do, draped in a satin sage-green dress that almost looks like a bedsheet. She merely gives me a nod, her dirty blonde hair pinned up to highlight her sharp cheekbones. Her modeling days are now behind her, but it’s the only reason Anthony Junior married her.
He comes in next, shoulder to shoulder with his father. The men are mirror images of each other, except thirty years apart.
Anthony Senior takes his seat across from me at the table. He can barely stand to glance in my direction and must think I haven’t figured out why.
As if I don’t know he’s been in Don Vito’s ear for months telling him things. He’s been one of the biggest saboteurs trying to displace my operation in Newport.
Who needs enemies like Titus Tuco when you have them in your own family?
“You ever gonna take that thing off?” Anthony Junior asks, guffawing like an idiot. He juts his chin, gesturing to the mask.
I don’t answer him or dignify his question with any kind of response at all.
The grin he’s wearing slides off his face.
He realizes it’s best not to engage and turns to his wife to talk with her about something instead.
It’s for the best—I’m in no mood for bullshit. Even less than usual considering where I am.
I had to fly over five thousand miles becausehisobsession got out of control. As usual, I’ve been left to clean up after him.
This will be the last time.
The staff begins to serve tonight’s meal: plated antipasti of prosciutto and figs, bowls of caponata and pasta alla norma, and various slow-roasted meats like chicken and lamb.
