Page 142 of Dirty Mafia Torment
It’s been a long,violent night.
I grab the balls of Grassi’s soldier and squeeze until his breath catches in his throat. He shuts up fast, while the other man—the same bastard who ambushed me outside the club and held a knife to my throat—stares wide-eyed, hog-tied, stripped, and curled like a baby in the fetal position.
Payback is a bitch, and that title I wear with pride.
My team and I are dug in on the Grassi estate. Beyond the stone walls, the Sicilian countryside stretches out in hard lines, dark olive trees and ancient farmhouses dots across the sunburnt earth. Citrus fragrances the air, but all I taste is a dry dust that scratches the back of my throat.
Midmorning’s a bad time for this; the sun’s too high, the air’s lost its crispness, and the drone buzz carries farther than I’d like. But I defied my father to speak to Massimo face-to-face. Time’s ticking, and initiating a conversation will require savviness, both his and mine.
First step, before shit begins, is to call my father. He picks up without a hello, and I swiftly get to the point. “I disobeyed an order.”
Silence. The kind that weighs on your chest, the kind I’ve endured more times than I care to remember. I wait him out, focusing on the kids setting up the equipment next to me.
Finally, he replies. “What’s your location?”
“South side on the hill.”
“The worst place to be,” he snaps with more emotion. “Get the hell out of there. Grassi has men crawling all over that hill.”
“Not anymore.”
It has been a night that tested the limits of my patience. I cleared the hill soldier by soldier, using every trick in my arsenal. Playing dead, springing up from the ground like I’m zombie hunting or in the remake ofApocalypse Now, stripping weapons from their hands before they could blink. Seven bodies neutralized, tied, gagged. My new pal, the man worried about his reproductive capabilities, is in charge. Every so often, I press a knife to his ball sack and make him report, “Nothing, boss.”
Massimo likes clean and orderly. I made his morning spotless.
“Sandro has eyes on them.” Pause, like my twin’s relaying information to my father live. “You left his men naked?”
“The consequence of failure. Massimo will understand.”
“If he’s not already dead,” my father grinds out.
I steel myself. “Ask me why I’m here.”
“She already told me why, you little shit.”
My brows lift. “Who did?”
“Elia Seraphina Lombardi. Turns up like a bad penny, hands out advice like loose change. Said this was your chance to prove yourself. Apparently, you’ve been denied that opportunity until now.”
Rome hangs in the air between us. I grit my teeth and wonder if that day will ever be behind us.
“Next, you’ll be demanding permission again to marry her.”
“Since you brought it up…”
“Enough.” His voice is sharp enough to cut skin.
“I’ve proof someone is pitting us against Grassi.” I forward two links from my phone. “Same clothing, same six men, same burn patterns, same style killings. Why else would Massimo escalate matters?”
His silence stretches as he watches the footage.
Impatient, I hurry him along. “I’ll find Dante before I speak to Grassi in person.”
“You’re not entering his house without men.”
“I’m not planning to.” Not initially, anyway.
A low laugh rumbles through the line. “My money better work.” Yeah, he understands what I’m about.
