Page 25 of Devil Among Men

…not now. Not here, in front of the men.

The meal ends, and the room is full of movement as everybody walks out.

Maurizio catches me alone afterward. “You sure you’re alright? You went somewhere else. I’ve seen that look on you before.”

“That so? When?”

“Before you fully learned how to control the split. You used to get that same look right before Il Diavolo took over. Distant. Somewhere else entirely.”

“It’s not that,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. “Just an old memory. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Go enjoy the rest of your night, Ice Pick. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look fully convinced, but he lets it go, heading back outside to rejoin the others. I sit alone at the table a while longer, staring at nothing, willing the rest of the memory to either surface completely or leave me alone entirely. It does neither, hovering at the edge of my awareness, patient, waiting for the right moment to finish what it started.

I find Portia later that evening on the small balcony on the second floor, phone in hand, scrolling through old photos with a nostalgic frown.

“What are you looking at?” I ask, leaning against the railing beside her.

“Old family photos.” She turns the screen toward me, a picture of her and Jayla as kids, flanked by two adults I don’t recognize, everyone grinning at whatever birthday or holiday the photo captured. “I keep going back to them since the call with my dad. Trying to remember the good version of him instead of whatever’s underneath all this.”

I study the photo, silent even as I recognize the face staring back up at me. The visual collides with the flashback I had earlier, making me question what’s past and present.

Easy to trigger with a fractured mind like mine.

The man in the photo is the man who leaned in close to Vito that night.

Older here, softer around the edges, but the same face as the man at dinner. His voice echoes in my head as if he were standing on this balcony beside us, asking Vito whether a problem had been handled yet.

“Rafael?” Portia says, waving a hand in front of my face. “You good? You look like you’re not in Sicily anymore.”

I blink, deciding an answer on the spot. “What do you think, dolcezza? I’m busy admiring your beauty.”

She smirks as if amused by the praise—and aware how I’m teasing her—and then settles against me in front of the balcony.

The truth is, I’m caught between how to move forward.

My memory might be telling me one thing, but who’s to say it’s accurate? That I’m not inserting faces where they don’t belong?

I might have a hold on Il Diavolo, but it doesn’t necessarily mean our memories have accurately merged.

“Can I ask you a question?” Portia asks suddenly. She turns to face me, moonlight illuminating her pretty brown face and slender throat.

“You always do, dolcezza. Go on.”

“Do you ever think about after? You know, what happens once Vito’s gone. Once the Belluccis are finished. What happens to us then?”

“All the time. Almost every moment. I think you know what I want.”

Her eyes sparkle, so warm and dark, framed by long lashes. “You want us to be together.”

“That’s right. I worked hard to make you my woman. You think I’m going to fight this war against Vito and the Belluccis and not claim my prize?”

“When you put it like that…”

“Our future will be whatever you want, dolcezza. If you even have to wonder, let me assuage your fears. Marriage. Children. Many, many years growing our family. Here in Sicily or anywhere else in the world. The details don’t matter so long as we’re together.”