Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
RENZO
“What the fuck took you so long?”
Massimo leads me into a dining room that smells like fresh coffee and polished oak.
Without a word, he strides to the head of a long dark wooden table and sits, his presence filling the space like he was born to lead.
One hand rests lazily on the arm of his chair, the other slicing through the air in a subtle gesture for me to sit.
His gaze is steady, sharp, weighing every move I make.
“Been tied up,” I say.
Mentally preparing for a chess match, not a breakfast buffet, I’ve already been frisked, stripped of my weapons, my team sent scattering into the brush.
The chef scurries forward, careful not to rattle the china as he pours steaming coffee into the cup before me, eyes darting between us.
“You were shot badly?” Massimo asks, voice low and deliberate, though I suspect his men fed him the juicy details.
“Something like that.”
His eyes skim over me. For signs of injury? Or weakness?
I mimic his actions.
His father’s been murdered, and his world’s come crashing down, yet you wouldn’t know the hurt he must be feeling by looking at him. “Sorry for your loss,” I murmur. “My father enjoyed butting heads with your old man.” My gaze doesn’t waver—let him assess my sincerity.
We’d once been allies, real friends, before the Life swallowed us up.
His voice drops, edged with menace. “Don Tomarchio ordered the execution.”
Cosa Nostra. Just like I suspected. “He envied your father for years. I remember you telling me about his Napoleon complex.” I lean back. “But you haven’t struck back.”
Massimo’s stare hardens. “Once I know who helped him, I will.”
“It wasn’t the famiglie,” I reply, my tone like tempered steel.
“The rumors say otherwise. My men are dying. My holdings are going up in flames.”
“Like you believe rumors over fact.” My lips draw tight, and his attention narrows on them.
He remembers me as a jokester, a good time, a challenge physically and mentally.
What he’s unused to is this take-no-bullshit side of me.
“My father gave no such order. We’ve taken hits, too, with plenty of fingers pointed your way.
” I pick up the coffee and take a sip. The cream’s absent, the liquid black like my soul.
“I brought you proof,” I add, setting the cup down to fiddle with my phone. I slide it across the table, the screen playing out two brutal ambushes.
He watches in silence, every muscle in his jaw taut. “I’ve got similar footage,” he finally says.
The chef reenters like a man tiptoeing across a minefield, knowing he’s standing in the middle of something dangerous, and sets down four plates with shaking hands. His eyes flick between us.
“We’ll eat, then deal with this.”
The phone lands back in front of me.
“Company?” I ask, nodding to the two extra settings.
“Unfortunately,” Massimo says without looking away from me.
More plates arrive—eggs, bacon, hash browns, steak. Not a green vegetable or fruit tray in sight.
“Thought you’d appreciate an American breakfast.”
Jesus. “You planned this?”
“Like I said, you’re late. I was close to giving up hope you’d show.”
I grind my teeth. Yeah, and I would’ve faded into the darkness if Fina hadn’t stepped in.
“Eat.”
I grab my phone. “Need to get word out I’m fine.”
“Go ahead.”
He agrees we’ve been set up. Has more video to review.
I pause. “I can extend the breakfast invite as a show of good faith?”
“Your brother out there?”
“Yes.”
“Then hell no.”
I chuckle and stab a fork into a steak. Cooked to perfection, the juice bleeding onto my plate. My stomach rumbles when the chef places a steaming pile of pancakes before me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Massimo eyeing them as well.
A throat clears.
I spin to find Dante and Luna in the doorway.
“Ah, the lovebirds,” Massimo says, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
Dante grunts. “Fuck off.” Then takes the seat across from me.
Luna follows. But instead of sitting, she waits, eyebrow pitched in his direction.
Dante looks downright defeated and, with a grimace, stands and pulls out the chair for her.
I run my eyes over him, searching for injury now that I’ve had a closer look. Aside from a scratch across his collarbone, he seems fine.
Still, I ask, “Massimo treating you well?”
He nods slightly, answer enough. “Our men have the estate surrounded.”
“Of course they do,” Massimo answers. “What did you think, they wouldn’t come to Dante Lucchese’s rescue?”
“You’re lucky a sniper didn’t take you out.”
Massimo’s smile is quick. “Luck has nothing to do with it.”
Luna snaps her fingers, catching everyone’s attention. “Puoi continuare a discutere più tardi? Ho fame.” She’s tired of them arguing and wants to eat.
I offer her my hand across the table. “You must be Luna. I’m Renzo Beneventi.”
Confusion shifts across her expression.
“Cut the bullshit,” Dante grinds out. “Everyone knows you’re fluent in English.”
She straightens, shoulders back. “Everyone knows you’ve a huge dick. It’s your brain size that’s questionable.”
Dante’s killed more men than he’s fucked women, yet she flashes him a smile, then ignores him to accept my hand. “I hope you’re less of an asshole than your twin.”
I smirk. “There’s got to be a fucking good story why you’re here.”
Dante rolls his eyes.
Massimo grunts. “She came to save him.”
“No shit?” I reply. Well, damn. The ice-cold killer’s cheeks are pink.
“Charged in here, a one-woman cavalry show, and demanded I release him.”
I grin at Dante. “Why’d she do that?”
“She,” Luna growls, “got tired of waiting for you”—she waves a finger at me—“to save his sorry ass.”
Enough said.
“You see the footage?” Dante asks between bites, eyes sharp. “Same men. Same style.”
“Same transportation,” Massimo adds.
“They use utility vans every time. Park them far from cameras,” Dante says, his tone grim, as if he’s been more co-conspirator than prisoner. By kidnapping him, Massimo sent a message—he wanted everyone to believe war was looming. Feeding into the game set by whoever is behind this.
“And the plates?”
Massimo shakes his head. “What plates?”
My father’s men won’t get far, then.
“Fiat Ducato vans,” Luna adds.
I stop midbite, dread coiling up inside. Vans …
We look to Luna.
“The FIAT emblems were removed, but you can tell by the hubcaps.”
Dante slams his fist on the table. “We’ve been scrolling through these videos for a week. Why didn’t you say something?”
“You told me silence was golden.”
“Didn’t stop her from speaking,” Massimo growls.
I relay everything to my father.
Fiat Ducato vans. Check hubcaps.
Then stop short. “What color?”
“White,” Luna says. “Common rentals in Italy.”
Every thought in my mind freezes.
“White.”
Massimo and Dante both frown. “What is it?”
Fear grips me, sharp and unfamiliar but settling in deep. “Settemo Accardo uses a white van.”
“Accardo,” both men say.
“My father is shutting down all Accardo businesses after men were caught on his estate.”
Dante’s lips tighten. “Your father butchered Carlo’s brother. Settemo’s father.”
Massimo rises, motioning for us to follow him into his office as he makes a call. The conversation is quick, efficient, but full of weight.
“My father had issues with the Accardos as well. Carlo asked him to sabotage the Beneventi casinos, ruin their expansion plans. In exchange? Enough gold bars to build a wall around our estate. My father told him to fuck off. After your father killed Benny Manocchio for doing the same, Carlo refused to touch it. I thought it died with him.”
I type a quick message to Fina, careful not to sound alarmed.
Miss you, babe. Everything good?
No reply. Could mean nothing—her phone might be inside the casita while she’s at the pool.
Panic twists inside me. I shoot a message to Sandro.
Signs point to Settemo. Any word from the men you sent after him?
Dots appear. Then stop.
Seconds drag like hours. My breath catches. My hands tremble.
Then the message appears. And my world blackens.
The motherfucker’s at the fair.