Page 44 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
“Conti. He’s got his best men on the hunt.”
“Stateside, or elsewhere?” I ask, curious if my father has a lead to his whereabouts.
“The South; Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi. Places Conti has connections.” He stretches his legs and folds his hands on his lap, as if he were in a conference room chair instead of wheelchair bound. “And before you ask, I kept my trap shut. No mention of Ciro Cigorelli. Not a single thing said about Riley.”
I smash my fist on the standing tray beside the bed and upend it. “Don’t say her goddamn name.”
He holds up his hands. “Jesus. Fine. We’ll decide later when you want me to interrogate her.”
“Or kill her.”
His expression pinches like he has more to say.
But, like her miserable, lying life, this conversation is over.
“Renzo,” I say. “Send men to Rome to see if they can learn anything about where he might be hiding.” Because I’ll personally drag his ass out of hiding, kick it, and then sort him out. I promised, and I won’t disappoint my father again. “My guess is he’s holed up in some underground club. They need to be discreet, or he’ll disappear.”
“Got it.” He searches my expression. But whatever softness may have existed is gone. “Anything else?”
“Our time here is done.”
CHAPTER 9
RILEY
Shoutingerupts and car doors slam. Footsteps race by my door. The villa is suddenly alive with energy.
Finally, something is happening.
Someone important has arrived. Is it the boss? The mafioso I briefly spoke with?
My elation is tempered with worry. I’m caught up in Ciro’s mafia business; this must be why I’ve been kidnapped. Because of drugs? Money owed? Both?
I wish I could call Emily. She must know by now, right? She must be devastated by Ciro’s death and worried about my disappearance.
And my grandparents—I missed my weekly call. They don’t deserve any more anguish than what Fate’s already dealt them.
You’re alive, Riley. Be thankful.
I drape the freshly hand-washed sheet over the balcony railing to dry, and then return to my chair to soak in the morning sun. At this rate, I won’t have any tan lines—not that anyone will notice with the sheet blocking the view from below. Not that anyone cares.
I close my eyes and mentally review the plan once more. I’ll meet with the man from the phone call, the one everyone refersto as the boss. I’ll make it clear I’m not involved in Ciro’s illegal activities—that while I knew about his drug habit, I am innocent and uninvolved in his dealings. I’ll promise to stay silent, ask to return home, and hope that’s enough to earn his trust. The fact I’m still unharmed offers a sliver of hope. The daily pot of tea suggests he might not be entirely merciless; perhaps he’s reasonable and I can convince him.
With a glimmer of control, I drift off to sleep.
I don’t know how long I’m out for.
What I do know is I wake up to a man shouting less than ten feet away. “Tommaso! Toglila dalla mia vista!”
I straighten, stunned, and my attention snaps to the larger balcony. I jerk as a door slams and violent cursing erupts in the room next to mine. A crash has me retreating inside. It’s followed by a renewed round of curses.
Dread sweeps over me, and panic has me pacing. But the name he uses leaves me dumbstruck.
Tommaso.
SANDRO
I boughtthis villa for the view.
