Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

SANDRO

My first thoughts when I gain consciousness are of her.

Her , in the shower, pinned against the glass with my arm around her waist and fingers laced through her long auburn hair. Her quivering and so fucking ripe for my corruption.

She glances over her shoulder, but I’m not having it. I want her immobile and completely, utterly under my control. I press my chest against her back, and then thrust my erection between her thighs, the tight fit making me even harder. “Beg me to fuck you like this.”

“Yes. Please…” she croaks.

I tug her hair. “Say it.”

“Please fuck my thighs.”

I graze my teeth across her pale skin and then, in a moment of weakness, nuzzle her ear. Because, before I die, I need my name on her lips.

Say my name. Say, “Alessandro, fuck my tight little body.”

Alessandro, please .

Palms on the glass, I cage her. “Brace yourself.” I thrust forward, violently and without reservation, and she submits, giving me everything I dreamed of in a partner, and more.

“What’s he saying?” A voice cuts through.

“Who gives a shit?” another man replies. “Make sure the ropes are tight.”

Reality sets in with a vengeance. My name on her lips. It was a dream.

It was all a dream.

“You said he was inside the apartment,” the first man—Dead Man One on my list—continues.

“I swear. He was inside all night. Must’ve left while I went for coffee,” Dead Man Two responds.

The worst kind of pain washes over me, the kind you bring upon yourself. These stronzos were following me.

“Home Depot opens early.” The ropes around me tighten. “Send Giovanni to buy a chain saw.”

Darkness creeps in.

Until nothing else remains.

The next time I come to, I’m more alert and better prepared. I recognize Dead Man One’s voice immediately. “You positive this is Alessandro Beneventi?”

“Been watching him for weeks.”

“Yeah, and we’ve a situation now because of the shit job you’ve done.”

Although I’m desperate for a good look at their faces, I force myself to relax like I’m still unconscious and listen. Because whoever is behind this hired morons to kill me.

A light flashes.

“What are you doing?” Dead Man Two demands.

“Sending a picture to our contact to confirm his identity.”

“You’re really taking some coked-up asshole’s word over mine?”

Dead Man Two kicks something and it skitters across the room. “I told you already, it’s Beneventi’s son.”

“It better be, or we’re dead.”

The tense silence is broken by the ping of a text alert.

“Cigorelli confirms it’s him.”

Ciro Cigorelli? The Riverview Casino construction manager? You’ve got to be shitting me.

As a native New Yorker, Cigorelli knows the ins and outs of New York construction better than anyone. I took his nothing company, C&C Enterprises, and put it on the map. I made that fucker rich. Why would he want to kill me when there are more lucrative casino jobs on the horizon?

These idiots must have it wrong. Cigorelli might have a coke habit, but he’s a full-blown money addict—and I’m his primary dealer.

Unless someone made him a sweeter offer. Unless Ciro fucking Cigorelli thinks he can play both sides and cash in from me and the mafiosi behind this.

Benny Manocchio’s men probably got to him. The mafioso capo my father hacked to pieces. His men are notoriously vindictive—who isn’t?

Which is why my father ordered a lockdown.

Dead Man One interrupts my thoughts. “Why’d Beneventi come back?”

I will myself not to react and attempt bodily harm on these assholes until I’ve a better grasp of the situation.

As for why …

Riley … fuck .

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Dead Man Two mutters. “We have him now. But do we kill him first before chopping him up?”

I wait for his answer, at an obvious disadvantage.

Finally, Dead Man One speaks. “Naw. How about we record it and send it as our gift? He’ll enjoy it, and maybe overlook your screwup.”

My skin burns with rage. Who will enjoy it? Which delusional mafioso believes he’ll survive after killing me?

“Jesus Christ,” Dead Man Two mutters. “I’m gonna need another cup of coffee for this.”

Footsteps approach. Without warning, I’m punched in the face. Somehow, I manage to not retaliate and stay limp.

“No worries this time. He’s out cold,” Dead Man Two comments. The weak-ass punk will pay for that.

Footsteps retreat, and a door slams.

If my lips weren’t swollen like a clown, I’d smile. The stupid stronzos left me alone?

I pry my eyes open but can only see out of one.

Motherfuckers.

Light filters in through a basement window, enough for me to take stock of where they’ve left me. I’m inside an empty, unfinished basement with a cement floor and thick cement block walls, an exposed-pipe ceiling, a steel door, and little else.

I test the ropes around my arms and thighs. Tight, with little slack, though I knew this already.

It’s a shitty situation to be in for most. But for a kid who grew up playing with his brother in the Beneventi family dungeon, this is just a carnival funhouse. Renzo and I had this game where we'd take turns locking each other inside one of the steel-barred cells. There was always only one way out, and we'd time how long it took to escape. Renzo's methods were predictable because he believed I'd overthink it—which, for a while, I did. I crafted elaborate challenges, hiding clues in layers to drag out the process. Yet, Renzo always made it out. Life's a game to him, and he's been slipping past one inescapable trap after another ever since.

The real question is, are these men methodical overthinkers like me, or simpletons like my brother?

They left me for a cup of coffee—simple it is.

I test the ropes, chair creaking. No slack, but it doesn’t matter, the answer’s so fucking obvious. Feet planted, I lean forward and stand, the chair rising with me, and then using my full weight, I fall back onto it. It collapses, the wood coming apart beneath me as I land on my back with a thunk.

Pain shoots through me like acid burn.

I push through it, knowing the odds aren’t in my favor yet. Freeing myself, I toss aside the rope and grab a piece of wood, slowly and meticulously sharpening the end of a chair leg against the cement floor. The remaining shards I pile on the windowsill, blocking out the light.

Armed and ready, I press myself against the wall to the right of the door, waiting.

It’s time to teach a lesson in what not to be—overconfident, stupid, weak. I’m the son of a monster, making me one in my own right. That’s why you never fuck with a Beneventi.

The longer I wait, the harder it is to stay conscious, and the angrier I get.

How did this happen? How could I allow myself to be watched? Ambushed?

Finally, the distinct growl of a chain saw interrupts the silence.

Coming in with guns blazing, are they?

Just as well.

The door is unlocked, and Dead Man One, Dead Man Two, and the man with the chain saw—Giovanni—rush in.

“Why’s it so dark in here?” Dead Man One hollers over the noise.

With 1980s horror music setting the scene within my mind, the carnage begins. Door kicked shut, I bludgeon Giovanni first, driving my weapon into his neck. He gurgles, and his hands reach for his throat.

The chain saw sails through the air like a torpedo, and then slices through Dead Man One’s torso like deli meat. He drops his cell phone, and his innards spill out onto the cement floor.

I pick the chain saw up and turn toward the last man still standing.

Shaking, Dead Man Two backs into the wall. Panicked by how easily I gained control, though he should be more concerned about punching me earlier. Though he’ll survive a few more minutes.

Because a dead man can’t talk.

I crash a fist into his face and gain immediate satisfaction when his nose breaks. Chain saw off, I demand answers. “You work for Bible Belt Benny?”

He cups his nose. “Who?”

Stupidity must run in the Manocchio bloodline. “Benny fucking Manocchio.”

“Jesus, that Benny?” he stutters. “No. Never met him.”

Something he said earlier seeps in between anger and intent. Something from their earlier conversation. “Why did he come back?”

“How long have you been following me?”

He holds up his hands. “I’ll tell you everything if you give me your word I’ll walk out of this room alive.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you my word, and I’ll buy a cup of motherfucking coffee as a thank-you.”

I catch his nod.

“Six weeks.”

My entire body stiffens. “You’ve been following me six motherfucking weeks?”

“Not following, exactly. Just waiting outside the apartment for your arrival. After the last three weeks, we didn’t think you’d show your face again.”

Amateurs. Them. Me .

How did I miss this? How did I allow my routine to become so freaking predictable?

“Lucky for you, you left the building before our guys could fire up the explosion. They turned the entire apartment on the third floor into a gas bomb. Used special sheetrock and window corking to block out air so the carbon monoxide could build up and ignite quicker.”

Fuck. This was a planned execution weeks in the making, well before my father butchered Bible Belt Benny. Who would have believed he’d be that cunning? But something else they said earlier flickers through my thoughts. “We’ll send the video as our gift? He’ll enjoy it, and maybe overlook your screwup.”

He —singular. Which of Benny’s men would enjoy viewing my murder the most?

“What were your orders?” I grind out through clenched teeth.

“To violently kill Sebastiano Beneventi’s sons.” He pauses in indecision, while his words ring in my ears.

For the second time today, fear sets in for someone other than me.

Sons. Plural.

Renzo .

“Who? Who ordered the hit?” Except I know the answer.

“We don’t directly work for him…” His eyes grow into saucers. “But he’s a big-time mafioso from the South.”

Everything slides into place. “How far south?”

“Georgia.”

“Atlanta?”

Dead Man Two / Last Man Standing nods.

A low-ranking member of the Eleven Famiglie orders the hits. A man my father ousted from Atlanta. The man whose uncle I murdered, and whose business partner my father sawed into pieces .

Emilio Conti .

“Where is he?” The room sways. The adrenaline spike’s fading, but I push on. “Where is Conti?”

“Don’t know.”

“And he paid that rat Cigorelli to report on me?”

Last Man Standing swallows hard. “Well, yeah…”

I pick up the chain saw and grab Last Man Standing by the neck, my vision clouding as dark shadows move to overtake me.

Not yet.

Not fucking yet.

I drag Last Man Standing out of the room onto the basement landing and start up the chain saw. We Beneventi will have quite the reputation after I’m done.

He recoils in terror. “You promised not to kill me.”

“I promised”—I lean in to yell in his face—“you’d walk out of that room alive. Now shut up so I can go buy that celebratory cup of coffee.”

Blood covers me from head to toe by the time I’m done. Then, I escape into Brooklyn’s mean streets. Only for darkness to drag me under a few blocks away.

RILEY

“It’s a miracle you survived.”

Emily tosses her purse onto the counter, and then drops into a seat at the kitchen table. My hands shake as I stir mayonnaise into the shredded chicken, celery, and almonds mixture. They haven’t stopped shaking, not during the cab ride to her apartment, not during my troubled sleep on her couch, not during this morning’s police interview. I nearly died .

If it hadn’t been for that phone call …

“I missed your chicken salad.”

Her comment seems so normal. Something we’d discuss when life was sunshine and roses. “I can toast the bread if you want? You always like a bit of crunch.”

“You don’t need to do this.”

I place two slices into the toaster. “You convinced Ciro I can stay here. And I’m wearing your clothes and makeup.”

I escaped with nothing but a silk robe and the contents of my purse: a wallet with my new NY driver’s license and credit cards, my passport, a checkbook, cell phone, touch-up makeup bag, birth control pills, tampons, and a box of Altoids. And keys to an apartment that no longer exists.

But what I lost is irreplaceable—him.

Even if I wanted to, without his full name, I’ll never find him.

You escaped with your life, Riley. Be grateful for that.

I plate two pieces of white bread and spread chicken salad evenly across both.

“What did the police say?” she asks.

“It was a gas leak,” I reply.

“Told you so. They happen all the time.”

The toast pops, and I quickly fix her sandwich, then place the plate before her. She’s right, gas leaks are common. And when I told the police about hearing gunfire, they said it was likely gang activity and under investigation.

I sigh. “You should have heard the gunfire, Em. It sounded like an old spaghetti western.”

“It’s a miracle you survived.”

“Yeah, it is,” I reply softly, taking my sandwich to the table and sitting across from her. The explosion, the gang activity, living and working for a drug addict—New York isn’t for me. Emily was kind to offer me a place to stay, especially with our strained relationship. But Ciro is a disaster, spiraling out of control. Last night, he didn’t even come home. Emily cried most of the night, and I was too shell-shocked to comfort her. Even if I suggest she return to Marietta with me, she’ll just make excuses for him.

But I’m leaving. Fate gave me a firm shake, and I finally woke up. Life is precious, and I’ve wasted enough time merely existing.

“Did you get a police report?” she asks between bites.

“It’s on the counter.”

“Ciro needs to give it to the insurance company for review.” She sighs. “I spoke with him this morning. He’s furious because they want proof he actually owns the building before discussing filing a claim, and his name isn’t listed on the LLC paperwork.” She chews. Clueless. So clueless about the man she’s dating. “Like Ciro would be paying workers under the table to renovate the apartments if it wasn’t his building. Can you imagine?”

Yes. Yes I can. If there’s a corner to cut, her boyfriend has his scissors ready. Except I don’t say this. “Whose name is on the paperwork?”

“Three goombahs who do odd jobs for him, but who have Wall Street connections. Ciro says like attracts like, and that he hopes to rent the refurbished apartments to their broker buddies, who’ll pay top dollar.”

I frown. “So, Ciro doesn’t own the building.”

“Aren’t you listening. He does. He has to prove it to the insurance people, is all.”

Am I surprised? Not in the slightest. It’s only been twenty-four hours, and he’s already submitted a claim. He didn’t return last night but is up early to file an insurance claim? I bet he doesn’t even own the building. Those three goombahs better smarten up. Lord knows what this is about or what Ciro’s hiding, but I call bullshit.

Don’t get involved. You won’t be around for the fallout.

With I sigh, I say, “If his name is on the deed, that should solve the problem.”

“The deed. If he can find it…” Emily clasps her hands. “Will you explain it to him?”

I blame it on stress and fatigue, but I grimace.

She sees it right away, and her face flushes with anger. “You know, he could have asked you to check into a hotel.”

My throat tightens. How can she be so callous after what I’ve been through? “He wasn’t here and hasn’t been home.”

Never mind how out of control, how paranoid, how psychotic Ciro has acted these past few weeks, or how horribly he’s treated her—vanishing for days on end, coming and going at all hours, abusing substances like a child consuming candy—Emily always makes excuses for him.

She tosses her half-eaten sandwich onto the table. “Not everyone’s a Stephanie.”

“What?” How cruel can she be, bringing Stephanie into an argument?

“You walk around like a zombie,” she snidely continues. “Avoiding relationships and trusting no one. In your eyes, everyone’s a Stephanie in the making. Especially Ciro.”

“That’s not true.”

She laughs cruelly. “Name one relationship you’ve made outside ours.”

“I’ve had relationships.” A relationship … a fling. But for some reason, I kept it from her. Maybe because our friendship is so emotionally one-sided? Is that why I accepted her invitation to move to New York? Because she’s the one person who barely notices my struggles? A friend more worried about missing my chicken salad than about my emotional well-being?

“None,” she stresses. “Because in your twisted psyche, Ciro is a villain, when he’s been nothing but kind.”

“He calls me Triple B,” I burst out, Stephanie’s name triggering me in the same way her stupid handbags do.

“He told you this a thousand times. He isn’t making fun of your breast size.”

Three weeks after I began my job at C&C Enterprises, he began calling me Triple B. I took offense, because what else could he possibly mean? Emily caught him harassing me during one of his coke-binge episodes. “What?” He tossed his hands up in the air like the nickname made perfect sense. “BBB—Beautiful Beneventi Bait.”

“Beneventi?” Emily asked. “As in—”

He kissed her on the mouth and ended the conversation.

The Beneventi family owns the casino. That’s all I know about them. Is it a work thing? C&C Enterprises is employed by them?

You can Google them once you’re home.

Home. Right. Since we’re arguing about Ciro, I should break the news. I draw in a breath. “I’ve made a decision—”

And she starts crying.

My anger evaporates.

“He’s quitting coke and getting sober, once construction is complete,” she proclaims between sobs. “He promised.”

Does she actually believe this bullshit?

“And … I’ll tell him not to call you that name anymore.”

“This isn’t about that, or him…” It’s about me. Me, making peace with the Tragedy. Me, accepting I’ll be hearing the name Stephanie a lot when I return home, but I’m ready for it. This is about me, and my fresh start.

“I want to help him so bad. What do I do, Riley?”

Dump him.

Move home with me.

Chase happiness, not despair.

“I’m on your side, Emily. Always.”

She stares at me with big tear-filled eyes. “Really?”

I choke on air. Dizzy and delusional. “We have the summer to figure it out,” I offer. Sealing my fate.

I can’t abandon her to the likes of Ciro.

I owe her, and unfortunately him.

Three months. Then I’ll quit and return home, in time for fall classes.

Three months to convince her he’s not worth her tears.