Page 147 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I don’t know if it’s instinct or curiosity that causes me to glance over my shoulder.
The men pursuing us stand in an arc below, and several more race off to encircle the church.
My stomach drops. They’re not firing. They’re waiting.
“Riley, hold up!” I hiss.
Her fingers tighten around my hand as we’re pulled inside.
Sunlight streams through the beveled glass, the scent of incense clings heavy, and an eerie quiet welcomes us … just before the devil greets me.
“I’ve got you now, bitch.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
RENZO
“What the fucktook you so long?”
Massimo leads me into a dining room that smells like fresh coffee and polished oak. Without a word, he strides to the head of a long dark wooden table and sits, his presence filling the space like he was born to lead. One hand rests lazily on the arm of his chair, the other slicing through the air in a subtle gesture for me to sit. His gaze is steady, sharp, weighing every move I make.
“Been tied up,” I say.
Mentally preparing for a chess match, not a breakfast buffet, I’ve already been frisked, stripped of my weapons, my team sent scattering into the brush.
The chef scurries forward, careful not to rattle the china as he pours steaming coffee into the cup before me, eyes darting between us.
“You were shot badly?” Massimo asks, voice low and deliberate, though I suspect his men fed him the juicy details.
“Something like that.”
His eyes skim over me. For signs of injury? Or weakness?
I mimic his actions.
His father’s been murdered, and his world’s come crashing down, yet you wouldn’t know the hurt he must be feeling by looking at him. “Sorry for your loss,” I murmur. “My father enjoyed butting heads with your old man.” My gaze doesn’t waver—let him assess my sincerity.
We’d once been allies, real friends, before the Life swallowed us up.
His voice drops, edged with menace. “Don Tomarchio ordered the execution.”
Cosa Nostra. Just like I suspected. “He envied your father for years. I remember you telling me about his Napoleon complex.” I lean back. “But you haven’t struck back.”
Massimo’s stare hardens. “Once I know who helped him, I will.”
“It wasn’t the famiglie,” I reply, my tone like tempered steel.
“The rumors say otherwise. My men are dying. My holdings are going up in flames.”
“Like you believe rumors over fact.” My lips draw tight, and his attention narrows on them. He remembers me as a jokester, a good time, a challenge physically and mentally. What he’s unused to is this take-no-bullshit side of me. “My father gave no such order. We’ve taken hits, too, with plenty of fingers pointed your way.” I pick up the coffee and take a sip. The cream’s absent, the liquid black like my soul.
“I brought you proof,” I add, setting the cup down to fiddle with my phone. I slide it across the table, the screen playing out two brutal ambushes.
He watches in silence, every muscle in his jaw taut. “I’ve got similar footage,” he finally says.
The chef reenters like a man tiptoeing across a minefield,knowing he’s standing in the middle of something dangerous, and sets down four plates with shaking hands. His eyes flickbetween us.
“We’ll eat, then deal with this.”
