Page 20 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I cross myself with trembling fingers.
Please, God. Forgive me.
And please—please—make sure Sebastiano Beneventi never learns it was me.
I’mon a straight path to Hell either way you look at it.
I pass two confession booths en route to the restroom tucked away behind the vestibule, the contribution basket overflowing with envelopes hugged against my chest.
Once inside, I lock the door behind me.
It’s laughable there’d be a collection in the house of God for a man who steals and murders for his profession. Thousands of dollars stuffed into pure white envelopes, every mafioso overly generous and in competition to outdo each other in kissing their new capo di tutti capi’s ass.
It seems right I take their blood money. I wouldn’t be in this situation if it wasn’t for their stupid rules.
I dump out the contents of my purse. My father always criticizes me for carrying a large bag, but I like to be prepared for worst-case situations.
Look who’s smiling now?
But there’s no time to gloat. Freedom is at my fingertips, if I can pull this off.
I stuff handfuls into my purse until it’s bursting at the seams, then shove as many envelopes as I can inside my bra and panties. Then straightening my dress and smoothing my hair, I exit the restroom and head straight for the emergency exit near the confession booths.
My father, anxious to get to the Beneventi estate, had the driver park on the side street. Avoiding the fanfare over the happy couple after they exit the church and time wasted socializing with his fellow capos.
Why make nice when you’re plotting to stab them in the back?
I pray his disgust at the delay I caused and his predictable impatience will have him staring out the car window with eyes off me. Yet I walk fast, heart racing for obvious reasons.
Until everything goes ass up at once.
My pink high heel snags between tiles. I’m launched forward, flailing, as I attempt to stop the inevitable, then hit the floor on all fours, my purse landing with a thud a few feet ahead.
Envelopes erupt like white lava.
Shit, oh shit.
I crawl forward, my knees and mangled wrist throbbing, and hastily gather then shove them back inside.
If anyone sees, I’m dead.
God is punishing me, isn’t he?
Like he hasn’t already done his worst.
Tears form. But crying won’t change my life, only determination will.
Retrieving my purse, I restuff the last few envelopes. But as I stretch toward the last, just out of reach, I hear a noise to my right.
A grunt.
Ever so slowly, I look up.
The confession booth door is cracked open, revealing a man inside.
“Renzo,” I breathe.
The sight mere feet from me shocks me to my core.
