Page 154 of Dirty Mafia Torment

Riley flies by me and throws herself into his arms. “Sandro. Oh my God, Sandro,” she cries, then her tone pitches deeper. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m okay. I did exactly what you showed me…”

I don’t hear the rest of what she says.

My attention snaps to the man sprawled out on the church floor between us.

Emo lies there, bound in a cocoon of white latex, one eye gauzed, the other wide with terror. He looks like prey, wrapped up neat and packaged, and waiting to be killed.

I recognize the white catsuit, and slowly, ever so fucking slowly, realize what’s happened.

Pride surges through me like a shot of adrenaline. Fina stands there, calm as can be, every inch the heroine in her own story. She didn’t just survive—she put that bastard down. I fucking fall in love with her all over again. I want to grab her, crush her against me, tell her she did good.

Except she avoids eye contact.

“Holy fuck!” Sandro exclaims, his disbelief echoed in the expressions of every man entering the room.

But if Emo believes this delightful horror show is over, he’d better think again.

You should be afraid, motherfucker.

Your nightmare has just begun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

FINA

What happensnext shocks even Sandro.

Renzo doesn’t just handle Emo, he owns him. Without a word and in a single brutal motion, he hauls Emo over a shoulder and stalks upstairs.

“Where is he taking him?” Riley asks.

Sandro grabs her hand and tugs her along, and I follow.

Men settle into the pews like spectators in an arena. I slide next to Riley, who’s tucked away beside Sandro. We wait in a state of suspenseful anticipation, drawn by violence’s magnetic pull.

A ripple of gasps breaks out at the movement in the choir loft high over the altar.

I blink.

Emo appears, his shoulder impaled by a steel cross as he’s thrust forward, dangling like a broken puppet, blood soaking the white catsuit.

It’s hard to say what’s more shocking; Emo nailed by a cross, the now red catsuit, his precarious position, or Renzo’s coldefficiency?

With every wiggle and squirm, the cross holding him over the altar buckles. Gravity and his weight reassure me he’ll eventually fall, though unfortunately likely to survive impact.

Excitement grips the men around me.

“Do you see Renzo?”

“Bleeding like an open fire hydrant—how long do you think it’ll take for him to slide off the cross?”

“Stupid traitor should have learned you never fuck with a Beneventi.”

“Jesus, Renzo’s only warming up.” Sandro stands. “Come on, both of you. This isn’t for your eyes.”

Riley rises to her feet. “What’s he going to…”

“You hear me?” Sandro says to me, bossy as ever. “Let’s go.”