Page 124 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Agreed.”
“Massimo’s a prick but a calculating one. Why kidnap Dante and not kill him?”
“To catch our attention.”
Sandro scoffs. “Mission fucking accomplished.”
“Who else has had their holdings hit?” I already know, but I want to hear him say it.
“Just Massimo’s and ours. Dante included, but only investments tied to me, like the pistachio farms.” His eyes sharpen. “You think we’re being played? Pitted against each other?”
“That’s exactly my thought.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, every cell on high alert. “I bet Massimo suspects it too.”
“You both always had similar perspectives on things.”
“I need to speak to Father.”
Sandro sits up straighter, elbows on his knees. “Already handled. Conference call’s set for tomorrow.”
But as helpful as he’s being, I understand how this ends. To Father, Massimo’s motives are irrelevant. You strike at the Beneventis, you bleed.
What I need are eyes in the sky and a full picture of what we’re dealing with. Yeah, reconnecting with Massimo is the priority, once I’ve men on the hunt for Settemo.
“Don’t act on your own. Capisci?” my brother warns.
I ditched the drink and the drugs. Took to the Life better than anyone imagined. Shared a raw and long-overdue moment with my twin. But I’ll never be the Beneventi lapdog.
“Yeah, I understand,” I reply.
The question is: Will I obey?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FINA
If there werea quota on unpleasant surprises, I would’ve hit my limit ten times over.
I touch the bandages on my cheeks and chin, feel the tight pull of gauze on my knees and thighs. Nothing’s broken. Nothing permanent. Just torn skin, bruises, and nerves shot so raw they buzz under my skin.
I escaped Carlo by death. My father by careful, cunning planning. But if I’d known that psychopath was hunting me down, I would have torched the path behind me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Because nothing about Emo Accardo is predictable. His obsession with me is terrifying. The white catsuit he was manically trying to force me to wear was proof enough of that.
What kind of psycho wraps women in latex and tortures them for fun?
I wince, and pain flashes down my cheek. The doctor said the cuts won’t scar, I’ve that to be thankful for.
Renzo looks at me like they already have.
He carried me from the farm like I weighed nothing. Held me on his lap the entire boat ride to Sardinia, tending to my wounds with antiseptic from the kit on the boat, which his father’s men provided. I asked him to let me down.
“Not a chance,” he murmured against my hair. “I’m never letting you down again.”
In some ways, he’s more wrecked than I am.
I breathe deep and soak in the silence of this bedroom, grateful for one moment without his heavy gaze tracking my every move.
