Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

SANDRO

It takes persistence on my part and nerve on Tommaso’s to get him to answer my call. It’d serve him right if my father knocked on his door without warning.

“I hate to have to tell you this,” he begins.

But I cut him off because I’m in the middle of shit. “Hold on.”

“Sir. Why are you dressed?” the nurse who just walked into the room exclaims. “You should be in bed.”

“Fuck off.” I pierce her with a hard look. They sent in a newbie today, all bubble gum and roses. She races from the room quicker than the others did.

“The hospital releasing you early?” Tommaso asks, surprised.

“No. I’m releasing me.”

He makes a choking sound.

“Pack your shit. We’re going to Italy once my men handle Cigorelli. If you survive.”

“What?” he hollers.

“Listen, asshole. He’s coming for you. You need to get yourself gone.” It’s an odd expression Tommaso is fond of using. The drugs I’m on must be getting to me.

“Who?” he asks.

“My father.”

“Fucking hell.”

I smile. For a ballbuster who gets beat up for enjoyment, he’s terrified of my father. “Listen, get the story straight because his men fact-checked fucking everything. Tell him you tried to dissuade me from breaking lockdown. Share how you jumped on the van’s goddamn hood while attempting to stop Conti’s men—he likes heroic bullshit like that.”

“Boss …”

“His men are searching for Conti right now. We’ve got to find him before they do. Capisci?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Pause. “Are the men interviewing Ciro Cigorelli today?”

My fists clench. Shitty food, nervous nurses, and three days confined to a hospital bed make me want to murder someone. But today’s my lucky day. “Yeah, but my father isn’t aware of his involvement, so keep your trap shut. I need to grab Conti before my old man can. Cigorelli can lead us to him.”

He clears his throat. “Sandro…”

“Conti’s not in Atlanta?” I demand, wondering at the odd tone in his voice.

“No. He’s gone underground since you diced and sliced his men.”

“You hire a tech geek like I asked? One skilled enough to hack Cigorelli’s bank account and search his devices?” An average person never disappears without a trace. But mafiosi excel at hiding bodies, dead or alive.

“Won’t be an issue. We got a few men on payroll.”

I frown. As we talk, Tommaso’s voice becomes more and more strained. My father boldly butchered another capo, so I get it. “Calm down. He’ll put a beating on you, and that’s it. Then we can recover by my pool, bourbon in hand, cocks in a sexy brunette’s mouth.”

Auburn hair, wound around my fist. Riley, struggling for breath while she swallows me deep down her tiny throat. “Listen, asshole. One more thing. If my old man brings her up, don’t say a goddamn word. She’s a nobody, capisci?”

“About her …”

I roll my eyes. “You busting my balls right now? While I’m incapacitated, laid up in pain—”

“She’s alive. I fucking saw her.”

I freeze. “Where?”

“Here. At the trailer … She was collecting an envelope.”

“An envelope?”

“For her boss … at C&C Enterprises.”

The room fucking spins. “What did you say?”

“Sandro. She was in on it.”

RILEY

What could Ciro have possibly done to cause that reaction?

Mind racing, I hurry back toward the warehouse and desperately piece together what I know to be true. Tommaso, the Uber driver, works at the Riverview Casino. He despises Ciro—hates him, if I read his expression correctly. Therefore, by association, he now dislikes me. This much I can understand.

But dislike me how much ? Enough to hurt me? Was he reaching for his gun? If his call hadn’t interrupted us, would he have harmed me? Or was it that I was overheated, caught the shift in his expression, saw his gun, and overreacted?

My thoughts circle around to the most heart-wrenching fact of all—I’ll never reconnect with Al now.

What’s worse? Knowing you’ll never again see someone you’re obsessed with, or having the opportunity to do so vanish in the blink of a name?

I want to see him .

I need to see him again.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I pause in the middle of a city sidewalk. God, did I make a mistake in running?

“Are you okay?” someone asks.

No. I was headed toward okay and beyond, until he exited my life. They all do, don’t they?

“Yes,” I lie. “Just hot.”

“Well, don’t stand there in the sun, honey. Best find a building with AC.” She walks off, probably headed toward cool comfort herself.

Sweat coats my forehead, and the envelope sticks to my hand. Deconstructing what transpired inside the trailer right now is counterintuitive. A cold iced tea and twenty-thousand BTUs of air-conditioning will clear my troubled thoughts. I can deal with the fresh dose of heartbreak later.

I reach the back end of our building and, because it’ll cut an additional block and a half off my walk, key in the code to the emergency door.

Instead of the cool AC I left behind, I’m greeted by an unwelcome blast of hot air. What is wrong with Ciro? Anyone, with any common sense or consideration, would run the air-conditioning during a heatwave. Everyone knows more energy is used if the AC is shut off then turned back on, and it’s more cost effective to leave it running.

Not bothering with the lights, I take a few moments to decompress.

Something crunches beneath my heel, but it doesn’t register until I place a hand on Ciro’s desk, and touch paper … papers … plural.

No. He didn’t.

I flick on the lights and decide right here and now I’m going to crucify my ex -boss, straight after I quit.

Months of organization, and now papers are scattered everywhere. The desk, the floor, even by the door. His office is complete and utter chaos. Did he have to dump every file and cover every surface, floor included? What on earth was he looking for?

“Ciro?” I croak, spitting mad.

No more. I’m done .

I head first for the kitchen, and then the garage, crossing the large foyer to get there.

At first, I don’t see them. Six men circled together. Chins lifted and eyes focused on something above. I stop in my tracks, my attention immediately lifting to the steel rafters.

I blink.

Ciro hangs by his neck on a rope looped over a beam, his battered body swinging back and forth, back and forth.

Beaten. Dead.

Murdered.

By these six men.

“Oh my God.”

The men turn toward me.

A man with a huge scar on the left side of his face shoves the man next to him. “Stupid kid. You said the place was cleared.”

“It was,” a man my age, about twenty-one but with a goofy, baby-faced expression that makes him appear younger, protests. “She came back…”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. Spinning, I reverse course and take off toward Ciro’s office.

I grew up on white bread and bicycle rides, Sunday dinners and county fairs, loving parents and a community where everyone looked out for each other. In a safe world until cancer, and later murder, shattered the illusion. But even so, that could never prepare me for something like this.

A bullet ricochets off the floor. Fight or flight instincts scream “keep running.” But logic says I’ll be dead if I do. So I stop and freeze, and not knowing what else to do, simply stand there.

“You stupid ciglione.” Scarface glares at the gunman, and the shooting stops. “You’ll alert the police.” His attention swings toward the kid. “Don’t stand there, get her.”

He charges toward me, then with a death clamp on my arm, drags me into the foyer and pushes me to the floor. I fall backward, my head hitting the cement floor.

Ciro swings like a pi?ata overhead, blank eyes staring off into nothingness.

As I sit up, my fingers feel tacky like I touched wet chalk. It takes me a moment to process what it is.

Blood. Ciro’s blood. I’m covered in it. Bile burns my throat, and my stomach churns, but the agonizing pain within my heart overwhelms everything else. Frantic, I wipe my hands on my shirt. “No, not again. Please , not again.”

“Shut your trap,” Scarface warns.

I swallow a whimper like it’s foul medicine. Two men dressed in suits, more suitable for Wall Street than murder, point guns at me. The remaining four wear black sweatpants and hooded sweatshirts. All six are sweating profusely, and a small part of me revels in their discomfort.

Though not enough to ignore the fact they’re wound so tight, Saran Wrap would be proud.

“You the girl who left earlier?” Scarface demands.

So, I was being followed. The kid answers for me. “I said it’s her.”

“Shut up.” With the barrel of his pistol, Scarface gestures at me. “Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Tough luck, then.” He grins a twisted, sadistic smile that chills me to the bone. “You should have stayed gone.”

Oh God. Am I about to die? Was this my father’s last thought when stupid Stephanie welcomed him home with a canceled credit card statement and a bullet?

A cell phone rings.

Scarface turns completely pale as he retrieves it from his jacket. “Fuckin’ hell.” He tosses it like a hot potato to the kid. “You answer it.”

Frantic, the kid swipes to answer. “Boss. They pumping you full of good meds in the hospital?”

Everyone stiffens.

“Che stupido!” Scarface exclaims. “Who does he think he’s talking to?”

The kid shuffles nervously as he listens with wide eyes, then stutters, “No. No disrespect. Sorry. It’s a goddamn sauna in here and…”

I study them from beneath my lashes. Dark haired. Speaking Italian mixed with English. Minions to a boss who terrifies them. These men are mafia, for sure.

And the likelihood I’ll survive this is less than zero … in the negatives, really … I draw in a breath, then gag. The unbearable stench of blood is only magnified by the heat.

Will I be covered in my own blood next?

“Um … yeah,” the kid announces. His eyes skim across the other men before resting on me. “No. No. We locked the building up good and tight like you asked. She must have had a key because she came in through the back.” There’s a lengthy pause. “No. Nothing on Conti. But we’ve got some files you’ll wanna see.”

The kid’s eyes bug out of his head as the others exchange worried glances. Soldiers, isn’t that the term for lower-ranking mafioso? And the kid did address the man on the phone as “boss.”

“Yes. You got it. We won’t leave until we’ve collected every fucking paper. No need for threats…” Eyes wide, body tense and goofy smile gone, the kid’s in full panic mode. By the expression on the other men’s faces, they all are freaked out by the phone call. Whoever their boss is, there’s no denying his power.

A shudder races up my spine.

“What?” the kid finally exclaims, and abruptly stills. His eyes rake over me. “Brown hair. Short, like five foot three. Really pretty, even with blood all over her.”

There’s a short pause, before he charges forward and hands me the cell phone. I look at it, and then at them.

All eyes are on me—and everyone is confused.

Slowly I bring the phone to my ear and clear my throat.

“Speak,” an impatient voice demands.

“Hello?” I squeak. “Before you…” … kill me … Sorrow has me choking on my words as everything hits me at once.

I’ll never see my grandparents again.

Or laugh with Emily.

Or fall in love.

So much time wallowing, numb and disinterested in life, a new guest star in The Walking Dead , and now I’ll be just that—dead.

Like Ciro.

Over something Ciro has done .

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I sniffle, trying to get a grip. Think, Riley. Crying won’t help you. A powerful mafioso like him probably gets off on your anguish.

“Stop fucking sniveling, and tell me where you’re from?”

His question confuses me. Where am I from? So he can do what? Hunt down my grandparents? Still he waits, until the silence becomes unbearable.

“Fresno,” I blurt. Never been, and never will visit … now …

His men scowl at me as I wait for him to speak.

But instead of words, I hear chaos. Things crashing. People screaming. Him shouting profanity.

Until everything falls quiet.

And I wait … and wait …

Finally, his muffled voice breaks the silence. “Hand the motherfucking phone to Guido.”

That’s it? No more questions? No opportunity to persuade him not to kill me?

“Please,” I croak. “I’d like to explain…”

“And I’d like to pump a bullet into your lying throat.”

Oh, hell in a handbasket. Why did I lie about Fresno? Something about his voice may read familiar but his threat completely, utterly terrifies me.

I thrust the phone at the kid. “He wants Guido.”

Eyebrows raised, Scarface snatches the cell from my hand and begins speaking before he even raises it to his lips. “I’ll toss her ass into the cement truck along with that friggin’ traitor’s…” His eyes lock on me, and confusion fills his expression. “Help her up.”

The kid grabs my arm and tugs me to my feet.

“The stupid ciglione got it wrong. She’s taller, five foot seven. Hair is dark red, a warm Cabernet color.” He pauses briefly, his expression more and more perplexed. “More like Pinot Noir? Yeah, that’s right—a deep red with blond highlights around her face.”

Dread has me stepping backward.

Why the physical description? The highest statistic for female abductions is within my age group, eighteen to twenty-three. Is their boss considering trafficking me?

“Her tits?” The question echoes around the warehouse like an announcement over a bullhorn. They’re all looking as I cross my arms across my chest.

“Big, gorgeous knockers, boss.”

I’m too frightened to be embarrassed.

“And you work for Ciro Ciglioni?”

“Yes.”

“Affirmative, boss.”

He jerks his head away from the phone and winces. Like he was on the receiving end of a verbal punch.

“Tell him I keep the books. I’m not part of Ciro’s drug deals or money problems, or whatever he’s done. I was only staying on through the summer…” My lips part, words forgotten, as Scarface produces a gun.

Then he shoots.

The kid drops to the floor next to me.

“You killed him?” I cry out, scrambling to put distance between us.

Scarface stalks toward me, and then grabs for me.

I sidestep. Except there’s no escape. Fate’s wrung me through her wringer until there’s nothing left to bleed dry.

His hand clamps on my elbow. “Whatever you do…” He raises his pistol. “…don’t fucking die on me.”

His weapon comes barreling down.

Sharp pain.

Before everything fades to black.