Page 45 of Dirty Mafia Torment

My father’s eyes start twitching, voice edged with panic. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Who?”

“Motherfucking Settemo Accardo. He parked his Ferrari in the driveway.”

The doorbell won’t stop, or be ignored.

“Is Carlo with him?”

“I spoke with him an hour ago. He was headed to his favorite restaurant in Chicago.” My father’s gaze cuts toward the door, then back to me. “You answer it.”

“Me?”

“No. The other idiot standing in the room.”

That would be you, Daddy Dickless.

I run through the options in my head. Escape or bluster through this. My friends aren’t in place, and everything’s set for tomorrow. But the thought of seeing Emo makes the scar on my wrist throb.

The doorbell blares.

I swallow hard, square my shoulders, and move to the foyer to answer it.

Settemo Accardo’s scowling face greets me, flanked by a few unrecognizable mafiosi.

“Well, if this isn’t a surprise,” I say brightly, a stupid smile plastered on my face, as if I’d long since forgotten the burn mark on my skin. “What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

“Your father home?”

He soundshopeful.Like he hopes to catch me alone. Creep. “Yes, he is. Right in the living room.”

Bile rises in my throat at his disappointment.

His heavy presence trails behind me, setting every nerve on edge. He smells like formaldehyde, like he’s spent time in a lab full of decomposing rats. Like he pulled the short stick, then had to scour the psycho ward. The closer he gets, the harder it is to breathe.

“Settemo. I wasn’t expecting you,” my father says stiffly. “Does Carlo know you’re visiting?”

“Carlo won’t give a single shit that I’m here.”

So, that’s a no.

“Can I get you and your men a drink?” I offer, already moving toward the bar. “Wine? Beer?”

“Whiskey. Neat. They’ll have the same.”

My hand shakes as I pour. I listen closely, trying to read the undercurrent in their voices, to guess the reason for the unpleasant surprise.

It can’t be good.

So the question really is, how bad will it be?

My father clears his throat. “How long have you been in Los Angeles?”

“Few hours.” Emo’s tone is clipped, sharp.

Confusion still edges my father’s tone. “You drove from Illinois to California?”

“How do you know that?”