Page 150 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“White,” Luna says. “Common rentals in Italy.”
Every thought in my mind freezes.
“White.”
Massimo and Dante both frown. “What is it?”
Fear grips me, sharp and unfamiliar but settling in deep. “Settemo Accardo uses a white van.”
“Accardo,” both men say.
“My father is shutting down all Accardo businesses after men were caught on his estate.”
Dante’s lips tighten. “Your father butchered Carlo’s brother. Settemo’s father.”
Massimo rises, motioning for us to follow him into his office as he makes a call. The conversation is quick, efficient, but full of weight.
“My father had issues with the Accardos as well. Carlo asked him to sabotage the Beneventi casinos, ruin their expansion plans. In exchange? Enough gold bars to build a wall around our estate. My father told him to fuck off. After your father killed Benny Manocchio for doing the same, Carlo refused to touch it. I thought it died with him.”
I type a quick message to Fina, careful not to sound alarmed.
Miss you, babe. Everything good?
No reply. Could mean nothing—her phone might be inside the casita while she’s at the pool.
Panic twists inside me. I shoot a message to Sandro.
Signs point to Settemo. Any word from the men you sent after him?
Dots appear. Then stop.
Seconds drag like hours. My breath catches. My hands tremble.
Then the message appears. And my world blackens.
The motherfucker’s at the fair.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
FINA
“Settemo.”
I spit his name like a curse, the syllables weighted with every violent memory. Riley’s eyes flick to me, understanding in her gaze.
His fist crashes into the side of my skull, a brutal impact that sends me stumbling to my knees, the granite floor rattling my teeth. Pain blooms hot, but I ignore it, twisting my body to face him, my hand dipping beneath my waistband behind me toward my weapon.
I don’t dare look at Riley frozen a few feet away. I’ll do whatever I must to protect her.
“Who’s your friend?” His voice is low, taunting.
“A local girl,” I growl, locking onto him. Black clothes, shoes, and gloves. White gauze masking an eye. Whichever doctor treated him couldn’t produce black? I listen for his men, but the church is silent.
Just Emo and his arrogance?
God, please say it’s true.
He moves in on Riley, his shadow spilling over her. A gloved finger drags across her collarbone in a slow, deliberate line. “Pretty,” he murmurs, his words sour, with an unhinged edge. Riley doesn’t so much as flinch, but stares him down in a move Sandro would be proud of.
