Page 18 of Devil Among Men

“It’s not enough on its own,” Maurizio says, though his tone shifts, less dismissive now, more genuinely engaged. “Old records only tell us where the money used to move. Not where it’s moving now.”

“I know someone who might know. A source I cultivated years ago. Low-level bookkeeper, worked adjacent to one of the shell companies I was investigating. She talked to me once, off the record, scared enough of losing her own neck that she’d never go fully on record. But she talked.”

“You think she’d talk again?”

“I think if I approach it right, framed as journalism instead of anything connected to Rafael directly, she might.” Portia leans forward, some of Maurizio’s earlier skepticism visibly cracking under the weight of an actual plan taking shape. “She doesn’t know I’m involved with any of this. As far as she knows, I’m still an investigative reporter chasing a story. That’s exactly what I’d be to her.”

“That’s a real risk. If she talks to anyone about it⁠—“

“She won’t. She’s more scared of the Belluccis than she is curious about a phone call from an old contact.” Portia holds my gaze. “I know how to handle sources, Rafael. This is what I trained for. Let me do the part of this war I’m actually equipped to fight.”

Maurizio glances between the two of us, his usual guardedness easing up. “If the source pans out and we cross-reference it against the old shell company data, we might actually get a real picture of where Vito’s rebuilding. That’s worth pursuing.”

“You’re agreeing with her.”

“I’m agreeing the plan has merit.” Maurizio’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, rare enough on him that it catches me off guard. “Doesn’t mean I’ve stopped worrying. Just means I recognize a good move when I see one.”

“Where’s the bookkeeper now?” I ask. “Still in Newport?”

“Last I knew. Working for a shipping logistics company I always suspected was one of the Belluccis’ cleaner fronts.” Portia pulls out a second sheet, this one with a name and an old phone number scrawled across it in handwriting I recognize as her own hurried, professional shorthand. “Her name’s Renee. I’ll need to reach out carefully. Can’t spook her and definitely can’t let her know how personal this has become for me.”

“You’ll do it by phone?” Maurizio asks.

“Phone first. If she’s willing to talk further, maybe a video call, whatever feels closest to a normal follow-up instead of an interrogation.” Portia taps the paper twice, decisive. “I know how to make people comfortable enough to talk. That’s the whole job.”

Maurizio studies her another moment before nodding, some final piece of resistance in him finally settling. “Do it your way. But keep me looped in on every contact. If anything about this feels wrong, you tell me immediately. Not after. Immediately.”

“Understood.”

“And Portia,” Maurizio says, “for what it’s worth, I’ve underestimated people before and paid for it. I don’t intend to make that mistake with you.”

It’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever heard out of him, and Portia seems to recognize it too, offering him a small, genuine nod rather than making a bigger deal out of the moment than it needs to be.

The meeting breaks up an hour later, Maurizio heading out to relay instructions to the men, leaving Portia and me alone with the map still spread across the table between us.

“You did good in there,” I tell her, meaning it more than the simple words probably convey.

“I know.” She smiles, though there’s real exhaustion underneath it, the toll of finally being taken seriously after weeks of fighting for exactly this. “You looked surprised, though. Even after everything.”

“Not surprised you’re capable. Surprised how much it still scares me, watching you step into this.” I reach for her hand across the table, old protective instinct warring against everything I promised her in that hospital-adjacent bedroom three nights ago. “I meant what I said. I trust you. Doesn’t mean the fear goes away.”

“It’s not supposed to go away entirely.” She squeezes my hand, understanding in a way I didn’t expect her to. “I’m scared too, Rafael. Every single day. Doesn’t mean I stop moving forward.”

I study her a long moment, this woman who’s rebuilt an entire life around a war she never asked to fight, who’s turned grief and fear into a weapon sharp enough to actually help win it. “When do you want to reach out to your source?”

“Tomorrow. No reason to wait.” She gathers her old notes, tucking them carefully back into her bag. “The sooner we know where Vito’s rebuilding, the sooner we can act instead of just reacting to whatever he throws at us next.”

I nod, though the wound aches sharply as I shift in my chair, a reminder I’m still not fully healed, still not back to full strength for whatever comes after this intel actually surfaces.

“Rest,” Portia says, catching the wince I try to hide. “You’re still recovering. Let me handle tomorrow.”

“I don’t like sitting on the sidelines.”

“I know.” Her expression softens. “But you taught me a lesson, back in that hospital-adjacent bedroom. Trust goes both ways. Trust me to handle this part.”

I don’t have an argument for that, not really, not after everything we’ve fought to get to this exact point. I think about how far we’ve both come since the terrace argument that opened this entire war. Her demanding I stop treating her like glass, me finally learning how to hand her real trust instead of protection dressed up as love. There’s a version of me, from not so long ago, who would have locked her in this room out of fear alone and called it love. I’m grateful, in a way that still catches me off guard, that she never let me become that version of myself permanently.

“Okay,” I say finally. “Tomorrow.”