Page 157 of Dirty Mafia King
She drops like a rag doll to her knees.
No. No. No. No. No. What has Sandro done? “Are you okay?” I fall to the ground beside her and lightly touch her arm.
She shakes her head. Not only is this beautiful creature involved with Sandro, she loves him.
And I ruined it.
No, wait. Sandro ruined it. How could he not tell her he’s engaged?
“For how long?” she chokes out.
“Months.”
She draws in a breath. “This summer?”
“Yes.”
She wobbles to her feet, and I rise with her. “He’s an asshole for not telling you.”
“Yes,” she mutters. “He is.”
“I dislike him,” I admit. “And he loathes me, if it makes you feel better …”
“It doesn’t. What I feel is …” She stares off into the distance.
“Lost?” I blurt.
“Yes.”
What can I say? I’m lost, too? What reassurances can I offer her? What does it matter who I love, if the outcome breaks everyone but Bastian’s cold heart? “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Because I am. For her. For Sandro. For myself.
“I’ll be going now.” She spins and hurries away in the opposite direction.
I want to run after her. But family first, right?
My emotions are all over the place, and I draw in a few calming breaths. Because tears are best shed when no one is watching. Once composed, I retrace my path.
Except as I pass by the red Maserati, a door hangs open, though mourners are still assembled around Don Lucchese’s grave.
“Angel.”
I stumble. “Renzo?”
A hand appears, and he waves to me.
With a glance over my shoulder, I approach the vehicle.
Renzo slides over on the seat, then pats the cushion.
I climb inside. “Oh my God. What? How?”
He smirks. “Why did I break into Matteo Lombardi’s car?”
He looks much better than when we last met. Less gaunt. More muscular. And his eyes are clear. “What are you doing here?” I murmur.
“Don Lucchese was my godfather.”
Sadness weighs down his voice. “Sorry for your loss, Renzo.”
