Page 37 of Dirty Mafia Torment

“Wait,” I say, my tone strained.

Her eyes snap wide.

“I’m surprised my father invited the Accardos.”

“The Accardos?”

“Yeah. Carlo and his new wife.”

“You mean Carlo Accardo, the guy bankrolling half the Midwest casino expansion? Your father barely tolerates him. He’s not famiglia. Why would we invite him to our wedding?”

“His new bride was at the church.”

Her eyes narrow. “Elia?”

Fuck. I only asked to check if Fina’s okay, but I can see Alessia piecing it together. “It’s her, isn’t it? The one you’re obsessed with. The one you chased to California, who told you to fuck off?”

Who I chased to California twice. Once, that ended with a promise, the second, that ended us.

“Elia Lombardi accompanied her father.”

I stare at her like she sprouted two heads. “She’s not with Carlo?”

“Their wedding was postponed. Out of respect for the new capo di tutti capi … who I married today.”

Relief lands like a punch straight to my chest. I know what this is—a second chance. For the first time in months, I can actually breathe.

I rake a hand through my hair.Fuck it if Sandro gets the happy ending and I get the rumors.With that thought, everything snaps into place. Time for damage control, to silence the rumors and set the record straight—strengths, weaknesses, all of it. I’m done with this self-destructive spiral and life as I’ve known it. My future will be as it was always meant to be, as a productive member within the famiglie.

As for Fina, I know she hates me and that whatever we had is toast. Still, she deserves a life far from the famiglie, far from her asshole father, far from Carlo motherfucking Accardo.

I straighten, mind razor-sharp with purpose. “I better clean up, then.”

Something flickers across Alessia’s face, subtle, troubled. “Renzo … she was caught roaming the estate.”

I’m already moving toward the door.

“Your father’s questioning her right now.”

FINA

Blood polka-dotsmy solid pink dress as I wipe the back of my hand across my lips, gauging my surroundings and the dark, isolated room Sebastiano Beneventi’s soldiers dragged me into.

Men always think roughing up a person will put them in their place. But like every other man who has put his hands on me, Don Beneventi’s soldier will pay. If he thinks my stomping his shins with my heels hurts, he’s in for a surprise.

Still, I recognize I’m in deep shit.

My father charged off somewhere around the eighthhole, frustrated by the Beneventis’ impenetrable estate but also worried we’d be questioned about roaming so far away from the wedding celebration. He should have considered this before dragging me across a golf course in high heels.

“Have a seat,” the soldier with the mean fists demands.

I square my shoulders, and as if he’d been expecting my resistance, he shoves me to the floor.

“I’m the daughter of a capo in the Eleven,” I spit out. “Show some respect.”

“Behave,” he mutters. Because that’s what mafiosi say to women, like we can’t string two coherent thoughts together.

I bare my teeth, and his eyes widen.