Page 143 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“If I had a military-grade drone, his entire estate would disappear with a single button pressed. You could do it from bed in Rhode Island, if Alessia can keep her hands off you long enough.”
“Not another fucking word.”
I smirk. He is always touchy about his sweet little wife.
“She said you were brilliant.”
“Your wife’s always been a fan.”
“Not Alessia. Fina.”
Well, shit. He used her name—Fina. Did I hear him right? They’ve been talking? Trading notes like old friends?
“Find Dante and report back immediately. I’ll have my experts study the videos and see if they can manipulate the pixels for a clearer image of the vehicles.”
It is a smart move, considering the poor resolution.
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
I clear my throat. “She said I was brilliant?”
The line goes dead.
“Alright, kids.” I grip the control board, and focus on the task at hand. They follow suit, eyes locked on multiple live feeds I’ve booted up onto a laptop. The drones rise, blades slicing the quiet morning sky, and vanish overhead.
“Showtime.”
Massimo’s estateis locked up tight—did I expect anything less?
I grind my teeth, scanning for weakness. Nothing. Then the kid crouched beside me flashes a thumbs-up.
Final-fucking-ly.
Eyes locked on the live feed, I send them off and slowly descend toward a window completely out of place. Not only is it wide open, but a knotted bedsheet dangles from the sill and down along the stucco facade.
“Looks like someone’s escaping,” the second kid murmurs.
“They’ll break their neck before they reach the ground,” the first mutters. “There’s, like, a fifty-foot drop.”
I glide inside, then freeze.
Cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by bedding, drapes, and clothes, is Luna Cecilia Gallo. Don Gallo’s daughter is tying knots with the fury of someone ready to tear the world apart, her lips moving in a silent tirade. I watch, fascinated, as she offers the wooden door behind her the Italian salute, then, unsatisfied, hurls the fabric away, storms over to the door, and wrenches it open.
Dante fills the doorway. His expression positively livid.
Well, shit. This is better than the front row at a fight club.
“What the hell is happening?” a kid exclaims.
Luna barrels forward and throws a shoulder into Dante’s body, knocking him back, then attempts to slam the door in his face.
Well, damn. Rumors don’t lie. She’s a firebrand.
To her dismay, the door bounces back open; he’s stopped it from closing with his foot.
She tosses up her hands and charges off.
That’s when he spies the drone.
