Page 52 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I smirk, because, bullshit aside and truth be told, I was hoping for the invitation. “I’d love to.”
He studies me then, a pause heavy with scrutiny. His gaze sharpens, calculating. Is he catching on to my mindfuckery? Or sensingsomething deeper—the truth to why I’m in Italy and far away from Rhode Island … and Chicago.
“Why ask me?” he finally says, voice edged with suspicion. “Father would be thrilled you’re taking an interest in the famiglie. Why not go to him for support?”
“Can’t.”
His expression tightens. “Why not?”
“I need to lay low for a bit.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He wants to strangle me, and I don’t blame him. For a man who surrounds himself with yes-men, puppets who never dare defy him, he’s still so damn desperate to prove his worth to our old man. Ripping that gun from my hand and stripping me of my place within the famiglie wasn’t enough to do so, it seems. Hate to tell him that it’ll never be enough, not until he stops trying.
Where would he be without me keeping things interesting?
“Relax,” I say with a lazy grin. “I’ll be long gone before the call comes in.” Pushing up from my chair, I stretch, rolling my shoulders. “Goddamn, after all this hard work, I’m starving. What’s for lunch?”
A red light blinks overhead.My exhausted mind struggles with what it might be.
Am I passed out on some seedy Roman side street? In a field, staring at a small drone hovering in the clouds? Did I fuck up again or, for once in my life, commit to a bigger picture?
I awake with a start.
Fucking hell, what time is it?
Sunlight offers me a stiff finger as I crawl out of the hotel bed. I was a good boy last night. Early to bed, early to rise—except mornings and I never agree, and evidently, this holds true despite being completely sober.
I flew into Rome last night like a goddamn gladiator ready to take on the world. So why mourn the death of the sins that used to makeme feel alive? Because—not going to lie—it was a struggle not to indulge in one final celebratory evening. My last night to be anyone but Sebastiano Beneventi’s son.
My demons were out in full force, beckoning me, tempting me. But I’m an asshole, not an idiot. Mind over matter, right? I’m in control.
I’m on a new adventure in life.
I’m the Beneventi about to flip the Life on its ass.
Guerrilla warfare, like the kind playing out in the streets within the Cosa Nostra, is so 1980s. Massimo Grassi, for all his education and tech talk, is still a barbarian at heart. It’s clear I can no longer leave modernizing the mafia in his hands.
Still, I managed to fuck up and overslept. If it hadn’t been for the fire alarm light blinking overhead, I might have missed my meeting with Dante.
The clock tells me I’ve fifteen minutes to haul ass across Rome. A quick brush of my teeth and spritz of cologne, and I’m on my way.
I move through the streets of Rome like a ghost retracing steps I barely remember taking. Everything looks cleaner now. Sharper. The air doesn’t reek of piss and smoke like I remember, and the graffiti that once screamed from the walls has been scrubbed down to faint whispers. Perhaps it’s the daylight, and how my prior experience with Rome was mostly at night in a part of town not mentioned in travel brochures.
Tourists wander past with gelato and shopping bags, smiling like this city hasn’t chewed people up and spit them out for centuries. Cafés spill sunlight and laughter into the alleyways, and for a second I wonder if I’ve stumbled into the wrong goddamn Rome.
It’s beautiful now, all healed from wounds I’m still bleeding from.
The memory slams into me: the gun in my hand, the sharp, electric, and addictive rush. The high of all highs. Then Sandro, yanking it away, stealing my thunder like it was his birthright. His betrayal cut deeper than the recoil. And my father’s silence, heavier than a bullet to the chest. His disappointment’s been clawing at me ever since.
I drag my hand along a pristine white wall as I pass until my fingertips are raw, streaking it with blood just to leave a mark. Proof that I’m still here. That this city, past and present, hasn’t erased me completely.
Fucking hell. Sandro isn’t the only one with daddy issues, is he?
My phone vibrates against my hip, jarring me back from the crippling realization.
Hand shaking, I retrieve it, preparing for Dante to tell me to fuck off because I’m officially late.
But it’s a text from Sandro:
