Page 32 of Devil Among Men

Portia’s eyes are glassy as they find mine, and I can sense her sheer confusion at what she’s hearing. She hadn’t wanted to believe the truth about her adoptive father, but Don Vito’s left no choice.

“It is time we stop these charades and put an end to this resistance,” he says. He motions at his men to hurry us along. “We’ll see how long any of you last now that I’m no longer holding back.”

16

PORTIA

Don Vito marches us out to the cars at gunpoint, the night’s cool air doing nothing to chase away the tremor still rocking me.

“Two cars,” one of the guards barks, shoving Maurizio, Adagio, and Jayla toward a black sedan idling near the gate. “You three, that one.”

“Rafael and the girl come with me,” Vito says. “The rest of you, follow behind.”

They force Rafael and me into the back of a second car, guards flanking us on either side, wrists bound tight enough to cut off circulation. Vito settles into the front passenger seat, twisting around to watch us with those empty leather eyeholes, silent now, savoring whatever satisfaction he’s drawing from our fear.

The car pulls out onto the dark coastal road, headlights cutting through the night ahead of us, the B&B disappearing behind us far too quickly.

I work my wrists against the rope binding them, twisting slowly, careful not to draw attention while the guard beside me stares out the window instead of watching me closely enough. My small hands and stubborn joints finally pay off, the rope loosening just enough for me to slip one wrist free.

Rafael’s eyes find mine across the seat, and an understanding passes between us, one neither of us needs words to communicate.

Vito hasn’t stopped talking since we pulled away, recounting details of my birth father’s cowardice with a relish that makes my stomach churn. I force myself to breathe evenly, keeping my expression blank, letting him believe I’m broken.

“Your mother screamed the loudest,” he says conversationally. “The poor woman was caught by surprise.”

I refuse to respond, focusing on the rope loosening around my wrist.

The guard beside me shifts, checking a message on his phone. The last loop of rope gives way, my wrist finally free.

I wait for the opportune moment to make a move.

The guard on my left is still too distracted by his phone when I use my free hand to wrench his gun from its holster.

My fingers close around the grip before he fully registers what’s happening. I pull the trigger at the back of the head in front of me—the henchman that’s driving our vehicle—and the bang is deafening.

The car violently jerks, swerving hard across the narrow road, tires screeching against asphalt as we spin out of control.

The guard beside me grapples for his weapon back, but as the car spins and we veer out of control, it’s already too late.

The car slams into the guardrail with a force that throws me hard against the door, pain exploding through my shoulder as metal crumples around us. Glass rains down, tiny cuts stinging across my cheek and forearm, though I barely register the pain over the roar of blood in my ears.

Rafael’s used the opportunity I’ve created.

He throws himself at the guard, looping his bound arms around the guy’s neck. They wrestle in the back seat of the car ’til he’s snapped the guard’s neck and then pulled his hands free of the rope.

Then he kicks the backdoor open and yells, “Portia, now!”

I scramble across the car floor to make it out the ajar door. It’s not until I stumble to my feet that I realize how mangled the car really is.

It’s a twisted hunk of metal smoking from the engine, the windows shattered and the wheels still rotating. But we’re not the only survivors of the crash.

Don Vito emerges from the wreckage.

Blood streaks down from under the mask and one arm hangs uselessly at his side, though he still manages to stand, swaying but defiant despite the destruction surrounding him.

“You think this changes anything?” he wheezes. “You’ll never win, Rafael. There will always be another Bellucci. Another Il Diavolo. You can’t kill what I built⁠—”

He collapses, crumpling to his knees on the asphalt.