Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

RILEY

Shouting erupts and car doors slam. Footsteps race by my door. The villa is suddenly alive with energy.

Finally, something is happening.

Someone important has arrived. Is it the boss? The mafioso I briefly spoke with?

My elation is tempered with worry. I’m caught up in Ciro’s mafia business; this must be why I’ve been kidnapped. Because of drugs? Money owed? Both?

I wish I could call Emily. She must know by now, right? She must be devastated by Ciro’s death and worried about my disappearance.

And my grandparents—I missed my weekly call. They don’t deserve any more anguish than what Fate’s already dealt them.

You’re alive, Riley. Be thankful.

I drape the freshly hand-washed sheet over the balcony railing to dry, and then return to my chair to soak in the morning sun. At this rate, I won’t have any tan lines—not that anyone will notice with the sheet blocking the view from below. Not that anyone cares.

I close my eyes and mentally review the plan once more. I’ll meet with the man from the phone call, the one everyone refers to as the boss. I’ll make it clear I’m not involved in Ciro’s illegal activities—that while I knew about his drug habit, I am innocent and uninvolved in his dealings. I’ll promise to stay silent, ask to return home, and hope that’s enough to earn his trust. The fact I’m still unharmed offers a sliver of hope. The daily pot of tea suggests he might not be entirely merciless; perhaps he’s reasonable and I can convince him.

With a glimmer of control, I drift off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I’m out for.

What I do know is I wake up to a man shouting less than ten feet away. “Tommaso! Toglila dalla mia vista!”

I straighten, stunned, and my attention snaps to the larger balcony. I jerk as a door slams and violent cursing erupts in the room next to mine. A crash has me retreating inside. It’s followed by a renewed round of curses.

Dread sweeps over me, and panic has me pacing. But the name he uses leaves me dumbstruck.

Tommaso.

SANDRO

I bought this villa for the view.

And when I needed it most, when I thought the salt in the air and sun on my face might soothe my anger, I see her.

On the adjacent balcony.

Sunbathing nude, her beautiful breasts tan from the sun.

On a vacation in motherfucking paradise.

What. The. Fuck?

I charge inside and then unleash a week of pent-up rage. A lamp, the television, a small armoire, they all take the brunt. By the time I’m done, my lips are busted and ribs are protesting.

I draw in a deep breath. “Tommaso!”

His arrival takes fucking forever. He limps in, takes stock of my bedroom, then turns to leave.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I could say the same,” he mutters.

“Do I look like I’m running an Airbnb?” I place a hand on the wall as the room sways. “Why isn’t her ass locked in the cellar?”

“You could barely stand the day we arrived, yet you spoon-fed her tea and cleaned the blood off her body. Why would I lock her in the dungeon?”

His words hit me like a blow. It feels like being waterboarded—cloth over my face, gallons of water pouring down, just enough to feel the suffocation. I was utterly out of it when we got to the villa, lost in a familiar addiction—her. My fingers grip the nearest object, an ornate wall sconce the interior designer insisted on. With a savage yank, I wrench it from the wall and throw it, shattering it against the opposite side.

Tommaso ducks, narrowly avoiding the debris.

“She can spend her vacation in hell.”

It takes him far too long to respond. “Broken lock.”

“What?” I growl.

“The cell door isn’t operable.”

I glare at him. “Well, call a goddamn locksmith.”

“Sandro … as your friend…”

“Don’t play the friend card, asshole. What the hell, man? You put her in the guest room next to mine? If you think my father wiped your clock clean…”

He stares at me with that look he gets when he’s determined to dig in. My vision blurs, and I’m faced with two obstinate assholes. “Go on,” I grunt. “Say it.”

“She seemed eager to reconnect with you, not anxious or guilty. Let me interview her, just in case we’re wrong…”

“She worked for Ciro. Lived in his building.”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “And…”

“And what?”

He hesitates. “She moved in with him after the explosion.”

The whitewashed room turns bloodred. “What?”

“If you’d let me run a background check on your girl earlier…”

I raise a hand to cut him off. Every moment leading up to the ambush replays in my mind—her empty building, the broken lock she wouldn’t fix, her sweet, submissive demeanor. I was blind and predictable. But even with bloodshot eyes, I see more clearly now. My girl—a Broadway-worthy actress. “Find a locksmith today.”

“On it.” He hesitates, and I brace for more bullshit. “And you’ll let me interrogate her?”

Jesus. Guilty or not, the thought of his filthy hands on her … “I’ll handle her.”

“You’ll kill her, then?”

I shrug.

“Have it your way.” He’s smart enough to leave it at that. “We have Ciro’s girlfriend in a secure place.”

“Interrogate the friend but keep her alive for now.” Jesus, withdrawal is a bitch. I understand why Renzo can’t get clean. Everything hurts, inside and out. What the hell did they pump into me?

He gestures toward the room next door. “Where do you want her?”

Tied up in bed, begging for mercy, fully aware of who I am and why you don’t fuck with a Beneventi.

“Leave her there to rot until the cell’s ready.” I pause, the image of her asleep on the balcony burned into my mind.

“But the motherfucking vacation ends now.”