Page 19 of Dirty Mafia Torment
My thoughts turn immediately back to Chicago, and Carlo’s request. My father never ceases to disappoint me.
“You can’t be serious? Spy on Don Beneventi? Whatever Carlo is planning with the information you provide, we can’t be a part of. Not unless you want your body parts spread out across the Beneventi golf course?”
My father grinds his teeth.
“When have you become a puppet?”
He swings toward me. I’m never this direct, and maybe that’s why I’m marrying the enemy. Maybe I played this engagement all wrong? “What did you say?” he demands.
When did he become the rat who squealed on others to help himself?
When did he switch from the doting father to this weak, pitiful man?
Money. That’s all that matters.
His fist curls, and I brace myself. Not even a wedding will save me if he loses his temper.
He’s capable of anything … even murdering your mother.
I blink hard, swallowing the tears that threaten. Not now. Not later either. Someday. Someday, far from here, when I have a life of my own, I’ll face her death. I’ll uncover the truth, then I’ll decide what punishment fits the crime.
“Not all capos are present,” I say, my lie thin but pointed. “Benny Manocchio’s missing.”
My father blanches.
Sebastiano Beneventi terrifies me, but more recently, rumors about Alessandro are circulating. How he not only took a chain saw to Benny’s man but mailed his remains, piece by piece, to the remaining capos. Some suggest he’s more vicious than his father.
My gaze slides to his twin.
So quick with a grin, so careless with the world. Hard to picture him holding a chain saw, much less covered in the blood of the Beneventi enemies.
Wait … no. Icanpicture thatvividly.
And, as far as savagery, Lorenzo Beneventi has everyone in this church beat.
My throat hitches, but I shake free from the sadness. My poor lack of judgment got me here. All those years ago, I should have chosen Massimo Grassi to obsess over.
My father ignores me through the rest of the ceremony, which isperfectly fine.
The vows are exchanged. Alessia Amato glows, radiant with her love as she cries, “I do,” and hurls herself at her husband. Their kiss lingers, endless, and envy coils inside me like a living thing. Sebastiano Beneventi protects what belongs to him. Why couldn’t that instinct have passed to his son?
A wicker basket is shoved into my hands, white envelopes overflowing from the inside. So many. My pulse hammers so loud it drowns out everything else.
“Give me that,” my father snaps, ripping the basket away. He tosses in an envelope without hesitation and passes it along. “I hope the bastard appreciates it.”
“How much?” I ask, feigning calm, though my voice cracks.
“Ten grand.”
I freeze. “Ten grand?”
“Can’t be the capo with the smallest offering. Not when they already whisper I’m cheap.”
“Maybe the check will bounce,” I mutter, too bitter to fake sarcasm and too distracted to muster anything more. Ten thousand dollars. From the cheapest asshole in the church. My mind spins, from my desperate prayer to how nine of the capos are present, to the fat envelopes, to the opportunity right in front of me. Desperate times, desperate measures, they say. I’m drowning, yet suddenly, gloriously, a lifeline is tossed my way.
“Cash,” my father forces out with great displeasure. “Famiglie tradition.”
That’s all I need to hear.
