Page 11 of Dirty Mafia Torment

The elevator chimes, and the door opens. My father grips my elbow and leads me inside. “Holy shit,” he exclaims at the gaudy spectacle before us.

Everything is gold. From the floor tiles to window trim, the three chandeliers to the wall sconces, the furniture to the backsplash in the kitchen to our right. A life-sized statue of a naked woman with a snake curled around her bosom dominates the open living space. The monstrosity is gold—I think, maybe, real gold.

I hold my hand over my eyes like I’m blinded.

Is this man for real?

My father eats it up. “This place must be worth a fortune.”

I can see him calculating numbers in his head, and the rage coiling inside me could give the golden snake some competition. “What makes you say that?” I sweetly manage to ask.

He looks at me like I’m stupid. Always underestimating me.

The promise of easy money is his drug. How to get it and how to gamble it away. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. What he hasn’t done is gamble with my life. No, he simply bartered it away like it cost him nothing.

A man appears. “Follow me,” he orders in a clipped tone and stalks away.

“Nice of Carlo to greet us.”

“Quiet,” my father snaps, expecting trumpets and getting a subtle Italian salute.

We trail behind the man, down a long corridor, and enter an enormous office that reeks of stale cologne and body odor.

I burrow my nose into my scarf. Carlo has weird beliefs, onebeing he believes bathing washes away a man’s mojo, which affects his ability to get an erection. Sure, his bad BO is gag-worthy. But the idea of having sex with him is worse.

I get my first glimpse of him as he sits behind a desk, and he’s everything I’ve dreaded and worse. His face is doughy and sagging, with deep lines etched from years of hard living. A patchy scruff of graying beard does little to hide the pockmarks across his skin, and his small, watery eyes sit beneath heavy lids that make him look tired and mean. He’s in deep discussion with a tall man standing to the right.Settemo, must be.

Neither acknowledge us.

My father shifts on his feet.

“Did the commission do what you asked them to do?” Carlo demands.

“Yes. They’re revising their policy as we speak,” Settemo replies. “If too many investors withdraw contributions at once, the funds will be frozen for up to a year while every party is investigated.”

“Excellent. Letting that much money rot in a frozen trust would bleed anyone’s bottom line dry, no matter how deep their pockets. If we ever need to pull out, we’ll move first.”

Not known for his patience, my father clears his throat, earning the glare of both men.

“This is Matteo Lombardi,” Carlo announces to Settemo. “West Coast capo to the Eleven. The man responsible for convincing Don Lucchese to pardon our sins.” He practically spits out the last word, anger simmering.

A man with a grudge.

I tuck the little morsel of information away.

“Matteo, this is my nephew and heir, Settemo Accardo.”

My father hurries forward, hand extended.

Settemo doesn’t lift an arm, completely ignoring him, and instead zeroes in on me. He rakes his eyes over my body, bold and calculating. A chill drills down into my core. His gaze makes me feel like I’vebeen stuffed inside a freezer in the back of a butcher shop, bodies hanging off hooks beside me.

I raise my chin slightly, defensively, aware how I look in my bubble gum pink dress, matching heels and lip gloss, and well-rehearsed smile. No way he sees past it. Arrogant men never do.

His lips twist, as his eyes darken with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on.

He’s the boy who broke his toys.

I understand now why my father warned me.