Page 145 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I’ve survived before. I can survive this.
Oblivious to my heartbreak, Riley’s all excitement and light. I do my best to put on a happy face and not ruin her fun.
Sandro went overkill with security. Men in a car in front and behind us on the short drive into town. Men trailing behind us, arms stuffed with antiques, as Riley and I make our way through thefair. I force myself to relax and enjoy doing normal stuff. Failing beautifully, yet nevertheless, I persist.
“What about this?” Riley lifts a broken clock with a yellowed face. I didn’t frequent antique shops in California per se, but the most hideous pink dresses in my wardrobe in Los Angeles came from thrift store racks.
Another time. Another life.
I thought the necessity of reinventing myself was behind me.
Wrong, Fina. Life without that liar in it is your next invention.
I flash Riley a forced smile. “You can put the clock on the nightstand beside your bed.”
She laughs. “He’ll kill me.”
“Doubtful.” I dig into my purse and withdraw my wallet. “My treat.”
“But you already bought a lamp.”
I hand cash Renzo left me to the vendor, ridding myself of it like I’ve done all morning, like I’m ridding myself of him. “You’ve been beyond kind to me, allowing me into your home and wardrobe.”
“You’re perfect for Renzo. I’ve never seen him so serious.” She smiles, not realizing her words crush me. “I bet you get married before we do.”
“How much?”
She blinks at my sharp tone. “You’re fighting?”
I press my lips together, unwilling to drag her into our breakup.
“He can piss off the Pope, for sure.”
Nope. Not saying a word.
She studies me closely. “I am loyal to him, and he’s done so much for me. But the Beneventi men can be … difficult. Please know I’m a friend you can talk to.”
“Thank you,” I mumble. Drawing a breath, I shove the ache down deep. “You know what might help?”
“What?”
“Gelato.”
We cross the square to the small shop and, while security waits outside, make our selections. We settle at an outdoor table.
“It’s the milk,” I say between licks. “That’s why it tastes better than ice cream from home.”
“I think you’re right,” she replies, chocolate coating her lip. “Even beats the ice cream from my hometown in the Midwest.”
I force my mind to stay present, my thoughts on Riley’s easy smile, the vanilla cup, the busy market beyond.
But a sudden movement snags my attention. A flash of black over by the statue.
Goose bumps prick my arms, and the fine hairs on my neck stand at attention.
Riley tracks my gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Just paranoid,” I lie, though my pulse hammers. “Must be tired.”
