Page 157 of Dirty Mafia King

She drops like a rag doll to her knees.

No. No. No. No. No. What has Sandro done? “Are you okay?” I fall to the ground beside her and lightly touch her arm.

She shakes her head. Not only is this beautiful creature involved with Sandro, she loves him.

And I ruined it.

No, wait. Sandro ruined it. How could he not tell her he’s engaged?

“For how long?” she chokes out.

“Months.”

She draws in a breath. “This summer?”

“Yes.”

She wobbles to her feet, and I rise with her. “He’s an asshole for not telling you.”

“Yes,” she mutters. “He is.”

“I dislike him,” I admit. “And he loathes me, if it makes you feel better …”

“It doesn’t. What I feel is …” She stares off into the distance.

“Lost?” I blurt.

“Yes.”

What can I say? I’m lost, too? What reassurances can I offer her? What does it matter who I love, if the outcome breaks everyone but Bastian’s cold heart? “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Because I am. For her. For Sandro. For myself.

“I’ll be going now.” She spins and hurries away in the opposite direction.

I want to run after her. But family first, right?

My emotions are all over the place, and I draw in a few calming breaths. Because tears are best shed when no one is watching. Once composed, I retrace my path.

Except as I pass by the red Maserati, a door hangs open, though mourners are still assembled around Don Lucchese’s grave.

“Angel.”

I stumble. “Renzo?”

A hand appears, and he waves to me.

With a glance over my shoulder, I approach the vehicle.

Renzo slides over on the seat, then pats the cushion.

I climb inside. “Oh my God. What? How?”

He smirks. “Why did I break into Matteo Lombardi’s car?”

He looks much better than when we last met. Less gaunt. More muscular. And his eyes are clear. “What are you doing here?” I murmur.

“Don Lucchese was my godfather.”

Sadness weighs down his voice. “Sorry for your loss, Renzo.”