Page 161 of Dirty Mafia Torment

“Mad? I am outraged. Outraged for every woman. He promised to marry me, gave every excuse for backing out, and proposed to another woman without my knowledge then left me to Carlo Accardo.”

“Bing-fucking-go.” Sandro smirks, a grin that infuriatingly reminds me of Renzo. “You wanted Renzo to interfere.”

I rise. “Are you smiling at my expense? I was days from marrying Carlo.”

“Until he was poisoned.”

My heart slows as my mind races to keep up. “What?”

“Who the fuck do you think poisoned that stranzo?”

“He didn’t …”

“Ask yourself why. Renzo wasn’t a made man. With Carlo’s help, the famiglie had millions tied up in a casino trust. Killing him risked everything, even my father’s wrath. But he did it anyway—waited months, swapped Carlo’s Pepcid with thallium, and made sure the staff staged it as an allergic reaction.”

My world spins, vision clouding.

“That took careful planning and fuck-all cunning. No one but a few people know the truth. I’m trusting you to keep it that way.”

“Months…” My chest tightens.

Sandro moves to leave.

“Wait,” I exclaim. “Where are you going?”

“I did what I came here to do—enlighten you. I’ve better shit to do than get involved in my brother’s love life.”

I jump to my feet, my mind in turmoil.

Renzo killed Accardo.

Renzo planned it for months.

Renzo didn’t abandon me to fate, not completely.

“Why?” I insist.

“Come on, Fina. You’re smarter than this. It’s the same reason he took a goddamn chain saw to Settemo.”

I search his face, dumbfounded.

“He ended Carlo Accardo because he loves you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

RENZO

I died on a cross.

I drove a cross through a man’s body and dangled him in the air with it.

But here, in the quiet stillness of an empty Roman cathedral, a strange peace seeps into my bones as I ask God to give me strength for what I’m about to do.

Then, it’s time.

When I leave, my new motorcycle waits on the cobblestone road. Leather jacket zipped, helmet secured, I give the engine a few hungry revs and take off.

The ride to Grottaferrata should take thirty minutes, but I’m there in twenty. The road cuts through rolling vineyards and ancient olive groves, their leaves shimmering with dew and the early morning light. To my left, the sun edges over the horizon, turning the hills into a landscape fit for saints and sinners alike. Still, I can’t reach the farmhouse fastenough.