Page 47 of Deal with the Devil
That earns a nod yes. “Dopo.”
I’m still confused watching her turn and walk out of the room. The lock twists half a second later.
I nibble on the ‘la merenda’ she’s brought, which is Italian for a light afternoon snack, items like cured meats and cheeses and fruits like fig and slices of pear.
Why could Il Diavolo possibly want me to go with him somewhere? Where would he even be taking me?
Unless he’s letting me go free, there’s nowhere I want to go with him. I want nothing to do with the man, let alone being in his presence if I don’t have to be.
It’s on my mind for the rest of the afternoon. I think of ways to protect myself if it comes down to it; if this is some mob-style execution he’ll be taking me on.
Picking up the glass cup Daniela’s filled with tea, I let it fall to the ground so it shatters into a dozen different pieces. Then I carefully select one of the pieces and slide it into my pocket.
Daniela comes rushing in only a few seconds later, shrieking in Italian at the mess she finds. I play it off innocently, offering profuse apologies as I kneel to help her clean it up.
At six sharp, she returns to collect me for Il Diavolo.
“Come,” she says. “He wants you.”
I draw in a deep breath and then drag myself toward the door with visible reluctance. I’m not sure what I’m expecting as I step into the hallway for the first time in three days, but it’s not to find Il Diavolo waiting for me right outside the door.
From how she made it sound, she was going to be escorting me to his quarters or private office.
But as soon as I step past the threshold, there he is.
I stumble to a stop a few feet away from him, the air vanishing from my lungs. He stands formidable and unmovable in his suit and devil’s mask, his arms folded behind his back, his gaze already set on me.
“Portia,” he says in greeting. “Follow me.”
Il Diavolo leads me down a long corridor paneled in wood so dark it nearly swallows the light. Every few paces, an antique sconce flickers like a dying heartbeat, casting deep shadows. We reach a set of double doors carved with what looks like some sortof historic Sicilian coat of arms—lions and eagles among laurel wreaths. Without a word, he pushes them open.
The study is cavernous and well-furnished like the rest of the house seems to be. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves sag under the weight of old law tomes and ledgers, their spines cracked and leathery. Oil portraits of dead men glare down from ornate frames, their eyes as judgmental as they are lifeless. A fireplace yawns along one wall, its grate stacked with logs though no fire burns. The furniture is all sharp lines and dark leather, more suited for strategy and business talks than comfort.
He points to a lone accent chair positioned to the side of the room, deliberately removed from the central seating. Like a dog in the corner. I glance at it, then back at him, refusing to move at first.
“Sit,” he says, his tone authoritative.
With a sigh, I obey and sink into the chair.
He crosses the room with the confidence of a man who’s made decisions that cost lives and drops into a leather club chair across from Don Vito and Anthony Senior.
The old don reclines with a cane across his knees, his hunched frame swathed in a fine wool suit that hangs too loose over his bones. His skin is yellowed with age, his knuckles like knots of driftwood.
Anthony Senior is already seated with a tumbler in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, his graying hair slicked back like a washed-up television gangster.
Il Diavolo adjusts his tie and picks up his glass for a sip. “There was a matter you wanted to discuss, Don?”
Don Vito leans forward and hacks into his handkerchief, a wet and phlegmy sound that echoes in the room. “The situation we now find ourselves in… and how we intend to handle it.”
No one looks at me. I could be the rug beneath their feet for all they care. I straighten in my chair, arms folded tight as I watch them carefully.
I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever this is, there’s a reason they wanted me here.
Anthony Senior speaks first, tipping his cigar to the side to flick ash into a crystal tray. “Whatever decision we come to, we’d better be damn sure it’s the right one. This isn’t the kind of mess we can wipe clean. Once the media gets a whiff, it’s over.” He takes a sip from his glass. “Last thing we need is more on our plate. We’ve got enough to deal with with Tuco.”
From where I sit, I catch the subtle shift in Il Diavolo’s posture. He tenses up, his right hand curling into a fist. Though his grotesque devil’s mask conceals his face, I can still tell his jaw clenches.
He’s angry. Anthony Senior’s words were a subtle jab at him.
