Page 144 of Dirty Mafia Torment

Eyebrows pinched, he slowly puts the pieces together. When he does, he tosses his head back and laughs.

Luna spins around.

I’m fearful for my drone’s safety.

The kid next to me wiggles backward, distancing himself from the laptop, fearing for his own safety.

“Shame there’s no sound,” the second comments, wide eyes fixed on the laptop.

Dante appears well. Other than messy hair from forking his fingers through it and a wrinkled shirt. No visible wounds or bruising.

As if sensing my concern, he signals a thumbs-up before pointing to the window, and shaking his head no. To emphasize the point, he draws a line across his throat.

Cut.

Don’t attack.

I quickly text my father.

Dante fine. Signaling hold off.

“Boss,” the second kid cries out beside me. “I’ve been made.”

I hit send and turn to the feed.

“Fucking hell,” I grind out.

But it’s too late. From a balcony, Massimo aims a long-nose rifle at the drone and, with the press of a trigger, blasts it from the sky.

“Move. Before he reloads,” I order.

The first kid’s drone dives, skimming past Massimo and slipping inside.

Massimo follows, rifle ready, not giving two shits if he fires holes into the walls.

“Drop the note,” I say.

What happens later hinges on this moment. Every mafioso in Sicily is watching and weighing whether I’m a man worth his name. Was that one-off with Vito Cardini a fluke? Are the whispers true? Can this wild and bent-in-the-head motherfucker deal with an enemy in a way that benefits everyone? The deciding factor balances on whether Massimo Grassi picks up that piece of paper. If he takesit, we talk. If not, things turn ugly fast and I look like a fucking fool. The weak Beneventi.

Massimo’s gaze locks on the drone’s lens, his eyes dark and unblinking, sharp enough to slice through steel. The muscles in his jaw flex. For a heartbeat, nothing moves. I can almost hear the decision grinding through his head.

Then, ever so slightly, he nods and picks up the note.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

FINA

Escaping the villa is unwise.

But before I paint everything inside the villa red with my misery, I leave the whitewashed walls and white tiles behind and accompany Riley to the fair, the day in town a welcome distraction.

My heart is shattered into tiny irreparable pieces, each sliver sharp and piercing, small daggers keeping the pain alive.

“I’ll do right by you, babe. And when I ask again, your knees will buckle. I promise you that.”

Promises, promises.

I was a fool to believe him.