Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

SANDRO

My men descend on Marietta, Ohio, as out of place as lotus in a wheat field. And, as I sit over a pot roast dinner in Riley’s grandparents’ kitchen and field rapid-fire questions about my relationship with their granddaughter, I fully admit I’m a class-act asshole.

Though they act like I’m some heartbroken fuckup.

“Riley must have had a good reason to dump you, son,” her PopPop admonishes me.

“George, stop pressing him,” Mema interrupts. “Do I need to remind you you were twenty minutes late to our first date?”

“She never lets me forget it.”

I take another mouthful of pot roast, and my stomach rumbles with pleasure. New York’s finest restaurants have nothing on Riley’s grandmother’s cooking. If I wasn’t so goddamn frustrated at how easily my girl’s evaded me, I’d enjoy the home-cooked meal more.

“You cheat on her?” Mema demands.

I cough as a slice of meat clogs my windpipe. And here I believed George was the cutthroat.

“Martha,” George scolds.

“He’s handsome as sin. I bet women flock to him like bees on honey.”

I clear my throat. Then tell them the truth—not about the women, who’ve suddenly lost their appeal—but why Riley left me. “My father is an important man in the Italian community and has an old-fashioned mindset. To strengthen our family, he arranged a marriage for me.”

“You’re married?” Mema looks six seconds shy of snatching my dinner plate away.

“No. I was engaged.”

Their eyes shoot daggers at me. If Riley is half as loyal as these two, I’m a lucky man.

“I convinced my father the engagement was bullshit, and I broke it off.” I roll back in the dining room chair. There it goes again—my fucking heart.

No more red meat.

No more dead ends that lead me no closer to her.

“She left me because she learned the truth.”

“What did you expect, Al?” Mema asks softly.

“I told her I loved her.” A fucking first. And every day she’s gone, the feeling grows worse .

They look at each other.

Mema reaches over and pats my fucking hand. Like I’m a dog that needs consoling. Or a brokenhearted asshat who lost the best thing that’s ever happened to him. “When she calls us, is there anything you’d like us to say on your behalf?”

I stifle the few choice descriptions that immediately come to mind.

“Tell her …”

Please come home.

I miss you, baby.

I love you.

“That after she talks with me, if she still wants to leave me, I’ll let her go.”

“You’re a romantic,” Mema says, looking at me like she’s seconds away from swooning. “If you love someone, set them free. If they love you, they’ll come back.”

Even PopPop eyes me with a hopeful gleam.

They’ll sing my praises when Riley calls—because she will call, right? And if her grandparents are convincing enough, she’s bound to talk to me.

But as for setting her free and waiting for love to bring her back?

Fuck that.

A knock interrupts my misery.

“What now?” I snarl.

My office door opens, and Tommaso appears. “An envelope for you was just delivered.” He closes the distance between us, and then comes around the desk to stand next to me.

“By who?”

“Some kid. The men tried to grab him, but he tossed it into the driveway and took off on his moped.”

I pick it up. Sandro is scribbled on it in familiar, practically illegible handwriting. When I get my hands on my soon-to-be-dead twin …

Scowling, I tear it open and read:

Asshole,

Congratulations on your failed engagement. Guess if I’m attending the wedding, I better give you what you want before you kill me. And what you want, brother, is probably indulging in pistachio treats by now.

Renzo

I toss the letter onto my desk. The room seems brighter, and my chest lighter.

“Time to bring my girl back home,” I tell Tommaso.

Willingly, I hope.

If not, so be it.