Page 17 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

I push open the door and jump out of the SUV.

“Shit, Sandro. Wait.”

I storm down the block and reach for my gun. Except it’s wedged into the backseat cushion where I left it earlier—because I didn’t want to alarm her.

Goddamn it. Amateur move. Another reason I should have stayed away.

The SUV jumps the curb and then cuts me off on the sidewalk. The passenger door flies open. “How about we driveby and then around once more? Check the video feeds before we charge inside?”

I curse beneath my breath. Tommaso’s right. The famiglia is on lockdown after my father took a chain saw to a rival capo. Better to know what the situation is before going in blind, especially now. Besides, my man replaced the shitty lock on her door for the same high-security one I’ve on my apartment door. Fort fucking Knox. No one is breaking in. I climb back into the passenger seat.

“Glad you actually listened,” Tommaso mutters.

The drill is familiar because we’ve completed the same routine each visit. A quick drive past her building to assess neighborhood activity and take plate numbers, before we circle the block, then run those numbers while pulling up video feed from the hidden cameras I had installed.

Weeks ago, Tommaso ran a background check on the LLC that owns the building. A group of investors, who came up clean. No mafiosi connections. Nothing off. Flippers looking to turn a quick profit, though progress on the building is slower than shit. He wanted to dig deeper, but I said it was a waste of time. What was the point since I was ending things?

Problem is addiction runs in the family. My father’s addicted to power. Renzo’s addicted to excesses and extremes, be they sex, drugs, or motherfucking rock ’n’ roll.

And I’m addicted to her.

Fuck.

“Lights on in a third-floor unit,” Tommaso comments, pulling into the same spot we vacated minutes ago. “Your girl said the construction crew has been knocking around the unit beneath hers, right?”

“It’s Saturday morning, asshole. No beer-belching construction workers are on site this morning. If they are, I’llhire them on the spot.” I run my hand across my chin. “You check the feed?”

“Not up yet.” He glances at me. “Your call.”

My father says good instincts make for good decisions. Renzo’s accepted this advice as a challenge to prove him wrong, instinctively reaching for highs through poor decision-making. But I learned the hard way my father’s right. The day I shot Conti’s uncle, I ignored instinct, and allowed my godfather—our capo di tutti capi—to fill my cup with wine from his estate. “In celebration of your first kill,” he boasted, slapping me on the back, then praised me for having the balls to do it. “Hai un bel coraggio, mio figlioccio.” I was blinded by my godfather’s praise, so much so I got piss-ass drunk and missed the most important meeting of my life.

My destiny wasmine, up until that point.

“Drive around the block once more.”

Hand on the wheel, Tommaso does as directed, fiddling with the feed as he drives. When we turn the corner back onto her street, the app finally loads.

I fall forward as Tommaso slams on the brakes. “Shit.”

My gaze drops to the video. Two men are barreling down the stairs side by side. Insuits.

A pit forms inside my stomach.

“And we’re out of here,” Tommaso exclaims.

My hand finds the door. “You think?”

“Yeah, I think. Mafiosi, for sure.” We glance up at the same time, just as the two men are racing from the building. “Count yourself lucky they missed you.”

Shit … Riley …

His fingers clench around the gearshift.

“No. Wait.” I take out my cell, press her number, and thrust the phone at him. “Warn her. Tell her to get out, and to use the fire escape. Capisci?”

“What?” Confusion fills his expression. “Are you fucking insane…”

Ignoring him, I grab a gun from the glove compartment, then push the door open and jump from the SUV.