Page 41 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“You’ve got something to say now?”
Fuck. He played her, didn’t he? I stiffen. Does she understands the danger she’s in? The last person who stole from my father was violently dismembered.
“Matter of fact, yes.”
The room grows quiet. Jesus. Prolonged silences are his move.
“I’d like to offer you some friendly advice.”
“Advice?” He says it like the word doesn’t sit well on his tongue. If he were any other man, if she hadn’t stolen from him, I’d laugh.
As is, I half expect her to start reciting poetry, some twisted shit about violence, just to get under his skin.
She lets the silence stretch.
And in that moment, I know I’ll never underestimate her again.
In a flat voice, she strikes. “The drainage pipe beneath the fence near the ninth hole is an easy access point onto your property. Your electrified fence means nothing.”
The room turns to ice.
My father spins on his main man. “What motherfucking pipe?”
He stammers. “Last week, the landscapers upgraded the flooded midsection. I wasn’t aware?—”
“Walk the perimeter. If she’s right, plug every goddamn hole, no matter how trivial. If my estate is this vulnerable again, Renzo will guarantee you regret it.”
Did I hear that right? Did he finally acknowledge my ability to handle shit? Did it have to come to this for him to notice, I mean?—
“I highly advise against plugging the drainage pipe.”
Everyone gawks at her, except my father. He looks like he wants to strangle her.
“Why not?” I demand.
She snubs me, refusing to acknowledge me.
My father looks at me, then her. Wheels churning. Trying to make sense of the tension between us and the dynamics of a relationship he’s only beginning to recognize.
“Answer him.”
She sighs, like we should know her response. “Questioning my father will get you nowhere. But do you know what I’d do?”
“Go on,” my father says.
“Watch and wait. What better way to discover who the real enemy is?” She spins, then hooks her arm through the guard’s. “You can escort me back to the party.”
Her declaration dangles in the air like a surprise wedding gift.
“Leave us,” my father orders, and the other guards file out.
The door barely clicks shut before my father’s fist slams into my stomach.
Pain erupts through me.
“I’m capo di tutti capi. No one, not even blood, embarrasses me.”
There it is—the inevitable accusation. What happened in Rome months ago playing out all over again. Another chance to dig into my wounds with words sharp as blades.
