Page 17 of Devil Among Men

“Rafael, you’re shaking⁠—”

“Enough. Do you understand? I cannot push any harder right now.”

“Rafael—”

“I said enough!” The words tear out of me louder than I mean them to, raw and ragged, an old, familiar darkness stirring underneath my skin, closer to the surface than it’s been since long before I learned how to control it. My hands clench into fists hard enough to hurt, every muscle rigid, fighting the thing clawing up from where I thought I’d locked it away for good.

Portia goes still, eyes wide, watching me with fear and understanding both.

“Look at me. Come back to me.”

I force my eyes open, chest heaving, sweat beading along my hairline despite the cool night air. Slowly the pressure behind my eyes recedes, the darkness retreating back into the place I’ve kept it locked for years, though not without cost. My whole body feels wrung out, hollowed, the way it always does after fighting the split back down instead of letting it win.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

“Don’t apologize. I pushed too hard. I’m sorry.” She moves closer, careful of my wound, wrapping her arms gently around me instead of flinching away from what she just witnessed, which somehow makes the whole thing worse and better at once.

“There’s more. I know there’s more. I just can’t reach it yet. Not without⁠—”

I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t have to. She understands exactly what I’m not saying, exactly what almost surfaced in this room tonight, and she holds me tighter instead of asking anything further, letting the silence settle over both of us until my heartbeat finally slows, until my breathing steadies, until the worst of it passes and leaves only exhaustion behind.

9

RAFAEL

Maurizio’s already at the table when Portia and I come in, maps and notes spread out in the same organized chaos he’s kept since the villa. He glances up, and I catch the flicker of hesitation cross his face the second he registers Portia’s taken a seat rather than hovering near the door the way she used to during these meetings.

“She’s sitting in now,” I say, before he can ask. “Officially.”

“We talked about this.” Maurizio’s jaw tightens slightly, though his tone stays level, professional. “No offense, Portia. It’s not personal.”

“None taken.” She meets his eyes steadily. “You’re worried I’m a liability.”

“I’m worried you’re untrained in a world that doesn’t forgive mistakes.” He glances at me. “Rafael, you’re barely three days off a gunshot wound. We don’t have room for more variables right now.”

“She’s not a variable. She’s an asset.” I lower myself carefully into the chair across from him, the wound still pulling with every movement, though I refuse to let the discomfort show more than necessary. “We agreed on this.”

Maurizio studies me for a long moment; some old, unspoken argument passing silently between us before he finally nods, conceding the point without fully embracing it. “Fine. What have we got?”

“Not enough.” I spread my hands over the map, tracing the outline of Vito’s known territory. “We know he’s rebuilding after the port. We know Anthony Jr.’s taking on more responsibility, which means Vito’s grooming him for a larger role in the family. What we don’t know is where he’s actually vulnerable.”

“We know his temper’s shorter than it used to be too,” Maurizio adds, marking a spot near the eastern edge of the territory map. “Word from a contact in Palermo says he’s been erratic since the port. Snapping at men who’ve served him for years. A man that unsettled makes mistakes eventually.”

“Mistakes we can’t wait around for.” I tap the table, impatient despite the ache still radiating from my side. “We need a direct move. Pressure on his finances, his supply lines, anything that forces his hand rather than waiting for his temper to do the work for us.”

“His finances,” Portia says.

Both of us look at her.

“I did deep dives on shell companies tied to the Belluccis back before any of this started. Before I even knew Rafael.” She pulls a folded paper from her bag, sliding it across the table.

Old notes, printed and worn at the edges, she’s clearly carried through every version of this nightmare since the beginning. “One of the companies traced back to an address in Ragusa. I went there myself actually. Alone, before I understood what I was really walking into.”

Maurizio leans forward, studying the paper. “You have documentation on Vito’s financial network?”

“I have documentation on parts of it. It’s outdated now, probably, but it’s a start.” She taps the paper. “Money launders somewhere. If we can trace where Vito’s rebuilding his finances after losing that shipment, we find a pressure point that doesn’t require anyone getting shot.”

I watch her lay it all out, methodical, precise; none of the hesitation I half expected given how new this world still is to her. There’s a version of this woman I met back in Newport who chased down mob financials for a five o’clock broadcast, and watching that same skill turned toward saving both our lives instead of just reporting on someone else’s tragedy pulls a tightness into my chest I don’t fully understand yet. Pride tangled up with an old, stubborn fear I’m still learning to set down.