Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

RILEY

“Who’s Emilio Smith?”

I clutch the crumpled fax I found under Ciro’s desk, my question reverberating through the office. Hours spent organizing bills, entering invoices into the online ledger for “transparency,” as Ciro likes to gripe, balancing C Emily and I have a dinner date, and I’ll be rushed if I don’t hurry. But unlike Ciro, I take pride in my organizational skills and instead set off in search of answers.

C he’s scrutinizing me intently.

“You playing me?” he demands.

“Excuse me?”

“All wide-eyed and innocent.” His brow furrows. “Christ, you came here, so you must know something.”

“Know what?” I ask, taking another sip as the fog begins to clear.

“Who … the Beneventi family … is.”

“Of course. They own the casino.”

He stands there, studying me closely, waiting.

“Do you … does Al … work for them?” Could it be he’s been so close all along?

“You call him Al?” Tommaso asks, incredulous.

Embarrassment washes over me. “Alex? Allen? You know … him?”

He rubs his jaw, as if weighing his options.

“What’s the harm in giving me his contact information?”

“Listen, sweetheart. I’ll tell Al you stopped by looking for him.” Tommaso’s lips twitch, and I grimace, disliking being the butt of some inside joke.

“Should I write down my number?”

“Not necessary.”

I frown, confused.

Before I can press further, his phone vibrates loudly on the counter by the refrigerator, cutting me off.

He strides over to it, scowling as he checks the caller ID.

“But believe it or not, he’s not the reason I’m here,” I say, reaching for the envelope.

“You work for Ciro Cigorelli?” His voice reverberates through the trailer.

“Yes, I’m here for the envelope.”

His friendly demeanor vanishes instantly. “Fucking hell. Are you in on it?”

We exchange a tense look, then both turn as his phone vibrates angrily again. The caller is persistent.

“In on what? I don’t understand…”

“This explains everything.” In a swift motion, he grabs his phone and turns away. Despite his size, he moves with surprising grace, but as he does, his black T-shirt rides up, revealing a gun holstered in his black jeans. “I hate to have to tell you this,” he says to whoever is on the line.

I don’t wait to hear anything more. My instincts scream danger, and the gun tucked into his jeans is enough to make me heed the warning. While his back is turned, I slip away, leaving behind my one chance to reconnect with my stranger.