Page 27 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“I’ve two high school friends who despise my father.”
“Lie. Tell them it’s a game.”
My friends know little about my family, or how important my father’s position is in the famiglie. No reasonable person would aid a mafioso’s daughter’s escape.
“Rent a private plane in cash from a small airport. You need to be in the air soon after you leave your house. You can pick up an international flight from Denver. By the time the trail you’ve laid runs cold, you’ll hopefully be somewhere safe.”
“I don’t know if I can pull it off.”
He snorts.
I bite my lip, considering his words.
“Turn the car around.”
My heart skips a beat. “You’ll help me?”
“Yeah, I’ll help you.”
I don’t hesitate. I jerk the wheel, spin us around, and aim northeast. Hope swells in my chest, reckless and hungry. If anyone can help me out of this Life, it’s Renzo Beneventi.
“Wait,” he commands. “I’ll rent a car.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head back, eyes rolling skyward like I’m the reckless one here. “He’ll know.”
“Relax,” I counter. “I’ll have it washed and polished to a fine shine, before I roll back the mileage.”
His eyes catch the light, all dark sparks and wicked amusement.
Lord, he’s devastating. A mind more devious, more clever than mine. But his laughter, low and sinful, tells me he sees straight through me … and appreciates every twisted inch.
Hours later,the car breaks down on the Mojave Fairway a few miles southwest of the Nevada state border.
“No. No. No,” I chant, hitting the steering wheel. Everything had gone perfectly. The four-hour ride to Vegas to pick up a fake ID and passport that Renzo had called in as a favor. The research he did on his phone to kill time, where he jotted down the private airports closest to Los Angeles, the cost to hire a plane, and contact numbers to make arrangements. Our animated discussion about the pros andcons of executing my escape, the main pro being my father underestimating my resourcefulness, and the main con being … well, duh … caught. When my father hacks my phone records, searching for answers, he’ll find nothing. No cell tower dings—I turned my phone off at the house. No clues as to how I arranged a fake identity or transportation. With Renzo taking charge, I’ll remain a ghost in all this.
I’m practically head-over-heels for this man. He’s not only gorgeous, in a wildly untamed way, but wicked smart. He seems to have an answer for everything.
“He’ll know I took his car.”
This strikes Renzo’s funny bone, and his laughter’s a deep, warm rumble.
“This is a disaster.”
“Fina. You riddled the cherry red paint with enough dents a demolition derby driver would applaud you. And I’m pretty damn sure you smashed the back fender while parking outside the casino.”
Yeah, I was worried about the reason behind the crunching sound.
I curse my spitefulness for not being the slightest bit careful with my father’s precious car, despite common sense urging me to do so. “What am I going to tell him?” My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “He’ll pound me to a pulp.”
What I’m more concerned about, besides a few bruises, is that my father will realize I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. That his perfect mafia princess not only escaped her cage but was plotting to destroy it.
I was close … so close … to freedom.
Hope is a dangerous illusion. It creeps in, slow and seductive, until it owns you. Until you learn all over again the reasons you should be afraid. It drowns out doubts and strangles caution. Leaves you open and vulnerable to the pain that always follows.
I used to stare out the window, day after day, waiting for my mother’s return. Weeks and months spent hoping she would.
