Page 82 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Fear surges up my spine.
“You.”
I blink as men rush me, lifting Renzo from my lap.
“Careful!” I snap, jumping to my feet. “You’ll hurt him even more.”
They don’t listen.
I try to follow, but Dante grabs my arm, halting me.
“Not so fast. What happened?”
“Massimo Grassi’s men attacked him.”
His expression sharpens. “Grassi?”
“He believes the famiglie—the Eleven—murdered his father.”
“What?” Dante curses under his breath and pulls out his phone, typing.
“Can’t you do that later?” I say, exasperated and needing him to hear me out.
He glares but doesn’t stop.
“Grassi wants a meeting with Renzo.”
He halts his typing. “A meeting?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he growls, his usual calm edge splintering. “Why would his men shoot him if that were the case?”
Oh Lord. Deliver me from evil.
“Answer me.”
My heart hammers. My legs threaten to give out.
“I shot him.”
Silence crashes over us.
Then, like a dam breaking, I confess everything. How I’ve been following Renzo. The sightseeing. Stumbling upon him tonight. Interrupting Grassi’s men. My failed attempt at saving him.
How his stupid ass threw himself in front of the bullet like he has a death wish.
By the time I’m done, I’m breathless and shaking.
Dante watches me closely. Not blinking. Not moving.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Please, it was an accident. The man had a knife. I didn’t expect Renzo to—” My voice falters. “I didn’t think he’d protect them.”
I toss my hands up, trying to make sense of what’s impossible to make sense of.
Dante’s expression suggests he’s doing the same.
