Page 99 of Dirty Mafia Torment

I scowl. Not sure if it’s because of the label or his acknowledging Fina’s not some random hookup.

“Are you aware her shithead father made a new arrangement with Accardo?”

I blink, caught off guard. “What? He leave a note on his gravestone?”

“Settemo Accardo.”

Everything stills. “Go on,” I demand, dead serious.

“He gave her to him in exchange for all his debts to his uncle be forgiven.”

“Guess we put some feelers out and discover if he has strawberry allergies.”

Fina gasps behind me. I cross the kitchen again, already protecting her. She’d be in tears if she overheard what her father has done. I’d rather she cry over his casket.

“Don’t,” Dante warns, his voice low. “Word is out that she’s under my protection.”

I stiffen with outrage. “Yeah, about that?—”

He cuts me off. “Want my advice?”

My silence should be answer enough.

“Your father wants you in Providence…”

“And you think I should tuck tail and crawl home? Leave my job? Ignore the shit brewing with Massimo?” I lean a hand on the counter, suddenly out of breath. Pissing me off even more. “Do me a favor, since it’syourdoctor who pumped me full of oxy—call my father and inform him that I give him my word I’ll get clean for good. That Fina will help me.”

“A good therapist …”

“I’ll see one after the bullshit with Massimo is resolved.”

“Are you trying to offend me? Orders are to leave Grassi to me.”

Not happening.

I can feel him on the other end of the line, grinding his teeth and dreaming up ways to force me to obey. His loyalty to my father is admirable, and a goddamn headache.

“I’ll communicate your message,” he grinds out. “Pass her the phone.”

My hand trembles, my body betraying me. Reminding me I’m not at one hundred percent, despite trying to convince myself otherwise.

“He wants to talk to you,” I say without turning.

From right fucking behind me and all up in my shit, she hooks an arm around me and snatches the phone from my hand.

I find the sink, crank the tap, and drink straight from it like a feral animal. I fucking feel like one, like I’d like to rip out my enemies’ throats with my teeth.

“Okay,” she says behind me, voice soft but steady. “But the restaurant’s busy. I can still work, right?”

Whatever he tells her, she agrees. “I promise.”

I count to three before I ask. “How long?”

“A month. Maybe more.”

A fucking month? Massimo won’t wait that long.

She draws up next to me. “What was that about strawberry allergies?”