Page 61 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“It must be fun living in a big city,” Camilla continues, three wines gone and clearly not letting the topic go. “Everyone knows each other here.”
I roll my eyes. “Doesn’t Rome have, like, two million residents?”
“Closer to three,” Bianca chimes in.
“I mean this part of the city,” Camilla explains. “They know everyone here.”
My stomach drops. “They?”
She lowers her voice. “Bianca’s boyfriend and his associates.”
I watch my reflection as the blood drains from my face.
“Dante owns this part of Rome,” Bianca declares.
“Dante?” Fear rolls up my spine. Because I know of a Dante with connections to Rome. Everyone in the Eleven does. Hard not to when he’s the second-most powerful man in the Eleven.
Shit, oh shit. I didn’t leave the famiglie behind. I fell into its lap.
Camilla pats my arm. “Don’t worry. They’re harmless.”
“The mafiosi, you mean?”
Bianca and Camilla give each other a look.
“Does Zia Teresa know?”
“Of course,” Bianca replies. “How do you think I met Dante? He eats at the restaurant all the time with his friends. He was there the day you were off, with two handsome associates. When he arrives at the club later, I’ll introduce you.”
I bite my lip, cursing my luck. My head spins with the weight of this revelation. I want to scream, to cry, to wave a magic wand and make the truth disappear. I never met Dante Lucchese. I couldn’t tell you what he looks like, aside from being handsome and hung like a stallion.
How did I know intimate details about his anatomy but not Bianca’s boyfriend’s name?
It’s unlikely Dante will take any real interest in me, no more than he would in any woman who happens to be friends with his girlfriend and related to Zia Teresa.
No cause to panic. That’s what I tell myself, even though my pulse won’t settle.
I need to talk to my prozia and ask her why she’s rubbing elbows with the mafiosi.
Decide if I’m safe.
Or if I need to disappear, again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RENZO
Interesting things happenin the dead of night. Especially when no one is watching—or so you believe…
“Why are they hauling burlap sacks of pistachios into a shed in the middle of an olive grove?” the kid whispers.
We’re belly-down in the dirt, tucked into the tall grass just outside Vito’s property, running a damn-near-genius surveillance op on his secret side-hustle.
When my father shows the Eleven these photos, Vito Cardini is finished. Shame the greedy man won’t live to see the fallout. Springing to my feet, I take out a roll of Euros and toss it on the ground in front of him. “Good work, kid. Now it’s time to head home.”
He gathers the Switchblade 300 beneath his arm protectively, and we walk back to the Vespas. As he secures the drone, I turn my motorbike toward Vito’s estate. Photographs are one crucial part of my plan. But there’s more I’ve got to do tonight to become a made man.
“You’re not riding back to Rome with me?” the kid asks, finally noticing.
