Page 6 of Mafia Darling

I never change my mind, not after someone betrays me. You are dead to me, Francesca Mancini.

God, why did that still hurt so badly?

I forced the words out. “Awesome. Tell Lamborghini I said bye. Oh—and rot in hell, eh?”

Fausto said something to Enzo in Italian, and the two conversed back and forth for a moment. Were they talking business? Jesus Christ, that was cold. Though I shouldn’t have been surprised. That was all Fausto cared about anyway, his empire. His precious legacy.

Well, he would not get his murdering hands on my baby. No matter what, this child would be raised far away from Fausto, far away from the ’Ndrangheta.

Somehow I would get out of this goddamn country and they would never find me.

* * *

This ride was boring AF.

No one spoke after the call with Fausto ended. Enzo seemed lost in thought and Mariella played on her phone. I concentrated on not throwing up, which seemed like a real possibility with every minute that passed.

I had to get out of this car.

“Can we stop? I need to use the bathroom.”

Enzo asked Mariella if she wanted to stop, and the other woman shrugged without glancing up from her phone. He found my eyes in the rear view mirror. “I will stop by the side of the road. There are bushes and trees.”

“Fuck that. A real bathroom with a real toilet or I swear, I will ruin the leather upholstery in this car.”

He glared at me, then made a call. Whoever was on the phone called him Don D’Agostino, so I assumed it was someone who worked for Enzo. Odd that he didn’t travel with the level of security and paranoia that plagued . . . other mafia bosses. Was that confidence or stupidity?

When we finally stopped at a petrol station, two black SUVs were parked there. Four men got out of each car, a small army of thugs who looked more like military men, each wearing black cargo pants, black t-shirts and black combat boots. They formed a perimeter around the station, sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. Here was D’Agostino’s army. Had I just thought him stupid a moment ago?

It was clear Enzo was anything but stupid, because he had two men follow me and Mariella to the ladies toilet. Any attempt to try to escape here was impossible. The men waited outside while Mariella and I went in. I closed the stall door and took deep breaths. The urge to vomit was strong, but I fought it, not wanting Mariella to know I was pregnant. When I finished and emerged to wash my hands, Mariella was touching up her makeup in the mirror.

Rooting around in her purse, she held up a stick of concealer. “For your eyes.”

I examined myself in the mirror, horrified by what I saw. The misery of the last few weeks compounded by being kidnapped had not done wonders for my complexion. I looked tired, my skin sallow. Dark circles hung under my eyes, a perfect match for the anguish reflected there.

I will see that he sends you wherever you wish to go—with my blessing, of course.

“Do not look sad,” Mariella said. “Many important men in Naples work for my Enzo. You will find another.”

I nearly scoffed. No, thank you. I didn’t want another mafia man. I wanted an accountant or an architect. A barista, maybe. Someone with a regular job that didn’t involve killing people.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, waving away her concealer. “I’ll go back to Toronto. Or to New York. I’m not staying here.”

Mariella smoothed the edges of her lips. “I could never leave. There is nothing like a powerful man between your legs. Why would you want another?”

Self-preservation, maybe?

“Besides,” she continued, “Fausto will soon lose everything. My Enzo is very clever with computers and he has eyes and ears everywhere.”

What did that mean? Fausto had mentioned Enzo’s computer fraud empire on the yacht, but this sounded more direct, like Enzo was targeting Fausto. How? Did this have to do with my ransom?

I couldn’t worry about that at the moment. I had my own problems. As I watched Mariella fuss with her lipstick, an idea occurred.

“Can I borrow some lipstick?”

Eager to help me right the terrible wrong of my makeupless face, she handed over a tube. I accepted it then dropped it, and the tube rolled under the stall door. “Damn it,” I said, hurrying into the stall after Mariella’s lipstick. Once I had the tube in hand, I uncapped it and wrote furiously on the old metal.

Call police. Kidnapped by E. D’Agostino.

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