Page 64 of Dirty Mafia Torment

“Did you know the mafia run a club near the restaurant?” I casually ask, not elaborating further about last night’s unsettling discovery.

She pauses, fresh pasta between her fingertips. “Dante’s club.”

“Dante Lucchese?”

“He owns everything on the south side.”

My eyebrows touch my hairline. “Everything?”

She pats my hand. “Even the restaurant.”

Lord, I ran from the Eleven only to land like a dart in a bullseye. “I thought you escaped the Life?” Never once did she sound strange over the phone or worried. Never once did she complain or voice fear. Never once did she mention she’s still part of the world I’m desperately trying to eradicate from my life.

“Fina,” she sighs, noticing my distress. “There is no escape. Not really. You survive by being smart and by paying attention. Learn the rhythm of when to make yourself seen and when to vanish, when to speak and when to let silence speak for you. It’s finding brief moments to shine, balanced by knowing how to move within the shadows. These mafiosi respect three things: brute force,money, and respect. Prove yourself in one or more of these ways, and not only can you survive but flourish.”

“My mother …”

Aunt Teresa winces, sadness filling her eyes, her voice almost a whisper. “She shone too brightly.”

“You make it sound like she had a choice.”

She shakes her head, slow and heavy. “She didn’t. She caught the eye of a weak man who craved power. The kind of man who devours the little he does control.”

“I’m glad I left him with nothing.” No Accardo bankroll. No cash on hand, or inside his safe. No daughter to sell off. “Exactly what he deserves.”

Because no matter how much time has passed, there’s still a little girl inside me, pressed against the front bay window, eyes fixed on the road, hoping her mother might come home. I’d do anything to learn the truth, learn if the rumors are true.

Aunt Teresa moves away from the table, then returns with a bottle of wine. Silently and despite the early hour, she pours two glasses.

“Tell me about the Eleven in Italy.”

She shakes her head. “Italy, America, there’s no real difference. Sebastiano Beneventi still rules without question. You know that. You were at his wedding.”

The wine now tastes bitter instead of sweet.

“But Rome belongs to Dante,” she continues. “We’re lucky, in a way. The Italian famiglie—the Youngbloods, Vito Cardini—they don’t have Dante’s power, brains, or sense of fairness.”

Her gaze drifts, softens.

Oh no. She isn’t crushing on Dante.

“His good looks,” I add, “his charm, his big dick energy.”

“Elia Seraphina.” Her face flushes. And my friends and I thought her mind was on her sauce and not fine-tuned to our vividly descriptive discussions?

“Am I safe?” Iblurt out.

She frowns. “Your father’s proven himself untrustworthy. Odds are, he’s not in regular contact with the famiglie anymore. No one will stick their neck out for him.”

“And the Eleven?”

She studies my face—my worry, my panic. Because I don’t want to run again. I like it here.

“Learn the rhythm of this life, Fina,” she says gently. “Same way I did. And I promise you’ll find peace.”

Peace. Not safety.

And then my prozia does the most unexpected thing.