Page 5 of Deal with the Devil
I can barely see straight, eyes on the ceiling. The orgasm washes over me, and Rafael’s strokes only pick up speed?—
And then the fantasy is over and I’m left listening to the buzz of the vibrator and the sounds of the shower in the next room.
I blink dazedly, switching off the vibrator and sitting up on the bed. The buzzing continues, drawing my brows togetheruntil I realize it’s my phone. The screen has lit up to notify me I’ve received a text message.
Face still flushed from self-pleasure, I set aside the little purple toy and reach for my phone. The text is from an unknown number, which would normally mean spam, but then I read what it says and there’s an instant pull inside my stomach.
you’re the only one i can send this to
no one else cares about his death
they’ll get away with it like they get away with everything
Frowning, I quickly reply to the message.
Whose death?
A second goes by where the person on the other end hesitates, then three dots appear as they type a slow response.
Benjamin Sigler
For the rest of the weekend, I’m a hermit in my apartment. Once I say goodbye to Jayla at the airport, I don’t come out again until Monday morning.
But it’s not as if I don’t find ways to keep myself busy.
I binge watch a new TV show on Netflix. Catch up with an old friend from college and even have an hour-long call with Baron, my old field producer at Metro News. I work out in the living room and get some cleaning done.
All while keeping my mind off things that threaten to take over my thoughts.
Rafael Calderone being the most obvious topic pushing its way to the front, but what else is new? Even months after our breakup, I still can’t stop thinking about him.
There are other things too—my constant second-guessing whether I’ve made the right decision moving from Newport to DC and how much I miss my old life. Jayla’s visit has only hammered this point home.
And then there’s the mysterious text I received last night.
Someone reached out about Benjamin Sigler’s death. It sent shockwaves through me, drawing my mind back to last winter.
I’d been determined to blow the lid off the mob war between the Bellucci and Tuco families, eventually making contact with an associate named Benjamin Sigler. Relations between him and the Belluccis had soured after his brother was offed for betraying their trust. After that, he was willing to sell any info on the crimefamily to the highest bidder—or even blab for free to anonymous media reps like me.
…and then he turned up dead.
It was only the beginning of what seemed to be a concerted effort to squash my investigation. I was the lone journalist in Newport looking to expose the organized crime families. They were locked in a race to release some new psychedelic drug onto the streets. The deeper I dug, the more I made contact with inside sources like Sigler, the deadlier the risks became.
Not only was Sigler permanently silenced, but I became a prime target of mobsters like Il Diavolo from the Bellucci family and Titus Tuco from the Tucos.
So who sent me the text from the unknown number?
They refused to identify themselves when I asked who they were. They claimed there would be more discretion if we met in person to discuss Sigler.
I’ve yet to agree, leaving them on read for the duration of the weekend.
How can I take the chance that this unknown number isn’t some trap? How do I know it’s not someone from the Bellucci or Tuco syndicates trying to lure me out? Some attempt of theirs to finish what they started in Newport and off me?
The mob rarely lets people off the hook…
Mom and Dad FaceTime me on Sunday evening to gush about their latest cruise—a fourteen night excursion across the Mediterranean they’re four days into.
“Portia baby, you need to tell your father to stop!” Mom says loudly, a little tipsy off rosé wine. “He was stripping at the pool! Big ol’ belly out and all!”
