Page 21 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“Cigorelli confirms it’s him.”

Ciro Cigorelli? The Riverview Casino construction manager? You’ve got to be shitting me.

As a native New Yorker, Cigorelli knows the ins and outs of New York construction better than anyone. I took his nothing company, C&C Enterprises, and put it on the map. I made that fucker rich. Why would he want to kill me when there are more lucrative casino jobs on the horizon?

These idiots must have it wrong. Cigorelli might have a coke habit, but he’s a full-blown money addict—and I’m his primary dealer.

Unless someone made him a sweeter offer. Unless Ciro fucking Cigorelli thinks he can play both sides and cash in from me and the mafiosi behind this.

Benny Manocchio’s men probably got to him. The mafioso capo my father hacked to pieces. His men are notoriously vindictive—who isn’t?

Which is why my father ordered a lockdown.

Dead Man One interrupts my thoughts. “Why’d Beneventi come back?”

I will myself not to react and attempt bodily harm on these assholes until I’ve a better grasp of the situation.

As for why …

Riley …fuck.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Dead Man Two mutters. “We have him now. But do we kill him first before chopping him up?”

I wait for his answer, at an obvious disadvantage.

Finally, Dead Man One speaks. “Naw. How about we record it and send it as our gift? He’ll enjoy it, and maybe overlook your screwup.”

My skin burns with rage. Who will enjoy it? Which delusional mafioso believes he’ll survive after killing me?

“Jesus Christ,” Dead Man Two mutters. “I’m gonna need another cup of coffee for this.”

Footsteps approach. Without warning, I’m punched in the face. Somehow, I manage to not retaliate and stay limp.

“No worries this time. He’s out cold,” Dead Man Two comments. The weak-ass punk will pay for that.

Footsteps retreat, and a door slams.

If my lips weren’t swollen like a clown, I’d smile. The stupid stronzos left me alone?

I pry my eyes open but can only see out of one.

Motherfuckers.

Light filters in through a basement window, enough for me to take stock of where they’ve left me. I’m inside an empty, unfinished basement with a cement floor and thick cement block walls, an exposed-pipe ceiling, a steel door, and little else.

I test the ropes around my arms and thighs. Tight, with little slack, though I knew this already.

It’s a shitty situation to be in for most. But for a kid who grew up playing with his brother in the Beneventi family dungeon, this is just a carnival funhouse. Renzo and I had this game where we'd take turns locking each other inside one of the steel-barred cells. There was always only one way out, and we'd time how long it took to escape. Renzo's methods were predictable because he believed I'd overthink it—which, for a while, I did. I crafted elaborate challenges, hiding clues in layers to drag out the process. Yet, Renzo always made it out. Life's a game to him, and he's been slipping past one inescapable trap after another ever since.

The real question is, are these men methodical overthinkers like me, or simpletons like my brother?

They left me for a cup of coffee—simple it is.

I test the ropes, chair creaking. No slack, but it doesn’t matter, the answer’s so fucking obvious. Feet planted, I lean forward and stand, the chair rising with me, and then using my full weight, I fall back onto it. It collapses, the wood coming apart beneath me as I land on my back with a thunk.

Pain shoots through me like acid burn.

I push through it, knowing the odds aren’t in my favor yet. Freeing myself, I toss aside the rope and grab a piece of wood, slowly and meticulously sharpening the end of a chair leg against the cement floor. The remaining shards I pile on the windowsill, blocking out the light.