Page 39 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Congratulations on your wedding, Don Beneventi.”
Lord, he looks ready to wring my neck.
Vulnerability is a horrible word. Because it means you’re at the mercy of others. I can’t help my smaller womanly frame, an easy target in a world where strength is measured by the weight of your fists or the blood on your hands. I didn’t choose to be the daughter of the weakest capo in the Eleven, the man whispered about behind closed doors, pitied or mocked depending on the hour.
Everything that put me here was decided long before I had a say. It wasn’t my plan to wander this man’s estate, pretending I was in control, pretending I wasn’t terrified. I was sent to expose his weaknesses, but all I feel is my own. Helplessness clings to me like a riptide, ready to pull me under. I hate it. I hate that no matter how hard I try to stand tall, I still feel small, always a pawn in someone else’s game.
And yet here I am, under the gaze of the most dangerous crime boss, his eyes sharp with menace and something disturbingly close to curiosity.
He drags his fingers along his jaw, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing something heavy in silence.
He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?
And it’ll take an act of God to save me.
Fat chance. You stole while inside His Divine Holiness’s house.
He prowls toward me, and I swallow hard. His next words echo loudly around the room and seal my fate. “Don’t think for one fucking second I don’t know what you’ve done.”
A loud commotion erupts outside the library, interrupting us.
My eyes widen in shock when the door crashes open.
And then, the most unreliable asshole on the planet bursts through.
RENZO
I come in swinging.
My father’s main man—the bastard who shoved a syringe into my arm and dragged me off to rehab hell—is my first target. I knock him out with a single punch beneath the chin. Two more rush me. I go for the burly one first, driving my knee into his balls before slamming my elbow into the second man’s gut. He stumbles but keeps coming. I count to four, then headbutt him, shattering his nose.
“Oh my God,” Fina gasps.
Three down. One left.
The biggest motherfucker in the room—my father.
I tackle him to the carpet, land a few solid punches before he flips me onto my back, his arm crushing my throat.
His face hovers over mine, fury radiating off him in waves. “The last asshole who laid hands on me is buried beneath hole eight.” Jesus. Iknewthe golf course on our estate was a fucking gravesite.
“Why. Is. She. Bleeding?” My voice is sharp, measured.
He clocks me on the side of the head, stars bursting behind my eyes. “You dare use that tone with me?”
I snap my teeth at him like a rabid dog. His men shift closer, waiting. “Which one did it? Who dies today?”
My father scowls. “This is about her?” His arm disappears, and I drag air into my burning lungs. He stands, smooths his tuxedo, then touches a finger to his split lip, looking almost amused.
Doubt me now, motherfucker?
“Help him up.”
His man offers a hand. I ignore it, pushing myself up without assistance. My gaze darts to Fina—frozen, silent. Watching. “Who did it?” I demand.
“Jesus Christ. My man misunderstood an order and will be dealt with.”
“Yeah, he will.”
