Page 12 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Sit,” Carlo tells my father, voice cool and flat. “I’ve a few additional requirements before we finalize our arrangement.”
My father sinks into the chair and begins reading the document Carlo has prepared. His spine straightens. “What’s this?”
“A payment arrangement for your overdue debt.”
Curious, I drift forward, close enough to peer over his shoulder. My breath catches.
Three million dollars.
That’s my price tag?
My father slowly pulls a folded paper from his wallet. “I only borrowed…” He squints at the faded numbers while I try to process the hurt unfolding in real time. Blood money, that’s what this is, with my blood, my body, my life, as collateral. My future bartered away for cash already spent.
“My note says just under one point three million,” he mumbles.
I feel like I’ve been gutted. Not just cut open, but carved deep enough to reach the soft, hollow places where that hopeful little girl used to live.
Carlo extends his hand. “Let me see that.”
My father hesitates, then hands him the paper.
Carlo lifts it slowly, eyes hard, and tears it to shreds. “What you owe is what’s written there,” he says, tapping the new document without looking up. He gets off on humiliating him, doesn’t he? Making a capo in the Eleven kiss his ass? Holding a deep grudge against the famiglie, are we?
My father’s face turns blotchy with outrage. “We had an agreement.”
“An understanding,” Carlo corrects, his tone ironclad. “Things change.”
I watch, wide-eyed, as my father lurches to his feet. “An understanding?” he snaps, almost spitting the words.
Stupid, stupid man.
Settemo moves closer. So does Carlo’s man.
“You can’t?—”
“Oh my God. Those are the prettiest pink curtains I’ve ever seen,” I exclaim, gesturing to the window behind Carlo’s desk, saving my father’s neck. “Did you know my favorite color’s pink?”
Carlo’s expression twists, the look of horrified surprise priceless.
“The curtains are gold, you stupid bitch,” Settemo rumbles. “My uncle’s allergic to goddamn strawberries and hates all shades of red.”
Much like his questionable hygiene, Carlo’s obsession with gold and loathing for anything red or pink is well documented. The moment rumors of our engagement began circulating, I began weaving pink into my wardrobe, hoping he’ll recognize we’re incompatible. My father hates the color too, making each outfit a double-edged strike. Every outfit is deliberate, a quiet rebellion I derive immense joy from. The news of Carlo’s strawberry allergy is new, something even my online digging hadn’t uncovered.
My father mutters beneath his breath as he signs the new documents, then places the pen next to them.
Carlo looks pleased as punch. “I’ll expect you back in Chicago in two weeks for the wedding.”
I clear my throat. The opportunity I’ve been waiting for has arrived. “Two weeks? Won’t that be disrespectful?”
My father pins me with a glare.
Carlo files the papers into his desk, clearly dismissing us. “Disrespectful to who?” he asks, like my answer won’t make a lickof difference.
“Sebastiano Beneventi.”
His head snaps up.
“Father, don’t you remember? You had me RSVP to his wedding invitation.”
