Page 44 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Not when I have more urgent things to deal with, and a week to fade into the sunset.
“Goddamn it, Elia.” My father’s shout echoes around the living room. “Didn’t I tell you to never fuck around with the security cameras?”
“I was trying to help,” I holler back. “They were dirty, Father.”
I smirk when he grumbles about calling system experts back to the house to fix them. I should warn the cleaning staff they’ll be getting an earful.
“Headed to the beach,” I call out once more. “Be back later.”
“Wait. Carlo is calling about the wedding plans…”
His eager tone twists my stomach. He’s salivating at the chance to impress Accardo, ready to parrot back the information I spoon-fed him on the plane: a neat, easy-to-remember mental diagram marking the precise location of the pipe leading straight into the Beneventi estate.
Sebastiano Beneventi’s a smart man, and I hope he’ll take my advice seriously.
I close the door behind me.
Smiling.
It’s my twenty-first birthday, and the only gift worth having is the one I’m giving myself—freedom.
By the time the dust settles, I’ll be gone, gone, gone.
Three days.That’s how long until I’m expected in Chicago, walking down the aisle in a church Carlo picked, in a wedding I never agreed to.
I’m cutting things close. But everyineeds to be dotted, everytcrossed because, once this escape is in motion, there’s no turning back. It’s do or die. Literally.
Tomorrow’s the big day.
Speed and precision are everything. I booked a private, early-morning charter to Dallas under an alias, paid entirely in cash. From there, a direct flight to Rome. By the time my father realizes I’m gone, I’ll be sipping limoncello in front of the Colosseum.
My two decoys are already in play. Do I feel bad about deceiving them? A bit. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and besides, if they’re caught, they know nothing. Truly.
They think I’m screwing with my father again, the way I do by dressing in the clothes I wear.
One friend is already on her way to San José, decked out in the same hideous neon pink tracksuit I’ll be wearing while having breakfast with my father. With all that money at stake, he’ll come after me, for sure. And Carlo? Once an arrogant asshole, always one. He’ll hunt for me, too, outraged that a naïve and sheltered little girl jilted him.
Another sighting places me in San Francisco, having rented a car under the name Elle Lombardo. Subtle? Not exactly. But I know exactly who I’m dealing with.
Theirfirst stops? Obvious—LAX and San Diego. Then the bus stations, where they’ll find reports of a woman matching my description catching a 10 a.m. Greyhound to San José.
I’ve timed everything to the minute and alternated the timing of each sighting, with the last breadcrumb in Vancouver, where I vanish into the Canadian wilderness.
A carefully crafted crumb trail.
If it weren’t for the stolen money, I might not have pulled off my plan. I still can’t believe Don Beneventi never noticed such a large sum was gone or suspected me. He’s probably side-eyeing the Eleven, wondering why they were so stingy with their wedding gifts.
Life might never be a fairy tale, but I’m over living in a nightmare.
“Seraphina,” my father bellows.
I zip my bags and hide them inside my closet. “Coming.”
My father waits at the bottom of the stairs. “Goddamn it.”
“What’s the matter? Cameras not working again?” They are. But not for long.
The doorbell rings. Then again. And again.
