Chapter 4 #2
“You didn’t just disrespect him, you dissed the Youngbloods too.”
Everyone in the Life knows the savage way the Italian Youngbloods became made men, by luring a small army of enemies into a trap and setting them ablaze. It was twisted, gruesome, a spectacle of fire and fear, and the famiglie have been relishing every detail ever since.
Renzo takes another drag.
I’ve watched his life play out like a film, front-row to a starring role in a world of dark depravity. Lorenzo Beneventi at twenty-one was already a deviant. The man beside me, silently studying me, is sharper, wilder, more alive … more everything … than I remember.
He leans across the console to whisper in my ear, then gently blows smoke in my face. “You’re a piece of work, know that?”
“Bet you wish we stuck to the fucking niceties?”
His laughter makes me smile. Lord, when was the last time I’d done so?
Since he knows I looked him up online, I appease my curiosity. “Explain something to me.”
He relaxes back in his seat. “Shoot.”
“I don’t understand the appeal of underground fights.”
His head pivots toward me. “Jesus. You know about them?”
Renzo rarely posts, but other fight club participants do.
I air-quote the hashtag I saw. “#unstoppable.” I was shocked yet thrilled after discovering Renzo’s battered, bleeding mug shot.
“You’re a goddamn stalker, know that?”
I grin. “There she is.”
“You want into my psyche? Fine. I fight and fuck to let out the aggression.”
I swallow hard, clamping down on the wickedly delicious image of him fucking out his aggression. Wishing I’d found more footage of that online.
“Why not the gym like the other mafiosi?”
He shakes his head. “Not hardcore enough. Nothing beats a bloody battle or deep penetration, especially when I’ve tied her up and she’s at my complete fucking mercy.”
I’m pretty sure the last part’s meant to shock me.
“As hardcore as snorting coke off Roberto Ferrara’s girlfriend’s ass before fucking her and her friend?”
He chokes on the joint.
“Don Ferrara is livid …”
“I didn’t fuck them.”
I raise an eyebrow. “No?”
“Just watched,” he admits, wheels churning while he figures out how I know about this specific ménage à trois.
To his credit, he’s quick. “I erased the picture her friend posted within minutes.” He chokes out a gruff laugh.
Like I disturbed his already bent sensibilities. “You obsessed with me or something?”
I pluck the joint from his fingers and take a drag. Another first with this man. “Or something.”
“What, do you have alerts set with my name?”
I blow smoke, mimicking his actions, and give nothing away.
“Shit. You fucking do.” His eyes spark with admiration. “For how long?”
Now that he knows—and hasn’t demanded I pull over or given any signs of disgust—it’s kind of exhilarating. He gets me, I think.
If I was fascinated with him before, I’m enraptured now.
“Why?” he demands.
I offer up a partial truth. “Just a woman in the Life, struggling to see how the other half lives. Try being a woman in this world. I wish I were someone else. Off grid, like a plumber’s daughter.
A person whose worth is more than a bargaining chip.
” I take another drag. “Someone like you, who does whatever the fuck he wants. Whose father gives a rat’s ass what the famiglie think. ”
He silently considers me. “You think it’s easy being Sebastiano Beneventi’s son?”
“Hell yeah. Try being the only Lombardi child.”
“We playing a game now? Who Has It Worse?” He falls back in the seat. “You’re smoking crack if you think my life’s rainbows and butterflies.”
“One of my earliest memories of my father is when he came home one day, covered in blood and carrying a box. I asked him what was inside—thinking the blood was ketchup from the In-N-Out burgers inside the box that somehow exploded all over him. I was six, and persistent.”
“Hard to imagine it,” he mutters.
“I crept into his office while he slept. The box was wrapped in a towel on the floor, and inside was a man’s head. It was the first time I recognized my father wasn’t a plumber but a predator. I learned quickly to always be a step ahead of him or my life will end up like the head in the box.”
“Your father’s a hot-tempered asshole.” He runs his fingers across his jaw. “And mine will have me collecting bodies in boxes after the trip to Rome next week. He’ll push for me to step up. I feel it in my bones.”
My eyes widen. “Step up—like as a made man?”
His lips flatten, like he’s already said too much.
I hold still, watching him, waiting for more. The weed must’ve loosened his tongue, because he finally exhales the truth. “You think my life is mine? My old man gave me time, but that clock ran out. He made it clear; when it’s my turn, I take my place. No excuses. No bullshit.”
“You’re worried about killing a man?”
His eyes cut to me, sharp, almost warning. “Shit. You shouldn’t even know that.”
I roll my eyes.
“Worried isn’t the word I’d use.” He pinches the tip of the joint, examines it, then drops it into the Mustang’s vintage ashtray.
My father will notice it eventually, and I make a mental note to toss it later.
“I don’t want cookie-cutter. The same dull routine, day in and day out.
That’s how institutions decay, how people lose their minds, drowning in the monotony of wasted days. ”
My breath catches. He’s navigating the Life, just like me.
“I spent years dying a slow death, fueled by adrenaline, proving life outside the famiglie existed, and still came up short. Time’s up.
If I’m asked to step up, I will. And it’s not like I shy away from violence …
I thrive on it. I’ll bleed, fight, obey, do whatever it takes to earn my place as a mafioso. I owe my father that much.”
“What if you escape the famiglie? Disappear somewhere and start fresh?”
“I’m Lorenzo Beneventi. My fate’s sealed.”
“You’re giving up.”
“I’m being realistic.”
I shake my head, a bitter edge to my voice. “Then we want different things. Me? I want out of the Life. I want a shot at living my life.”
Lord, even my tone when I say the words “my life” sounds hopeless.
“So do it.”
I snort, incredulous. “Now who’s being unrealistic?”
He looks at me. Really looks at me. “Want to know what I’d do?”
Up ahead, a tumbleweed rolls adrift, carefree, until it snags on the roadside brush, leaving it to be ripped apart by a harsh, unforgiving world.
“Ruin myself?” I demand. “Fuck every Tom, Dick, and Giuseppe so a complete stranger I’ve yet to meet doesn’t get the virgin bride he paid for? Hope he’ll annul the wedding?” I make a face. “He’ll kill me. And if he doesn’t, my father will.”
“You’re a virgin?”
I blink. “That’s what you got out of all this?” Unbelievable.
“Trust me. Fucking your way to freedom’s overrated.”
I scowl. This is my future he’s callously joking about.
“You have a place in mind where you’d go? Abroad, preferably?”
“Yes.”
“And money?”
I shake my head.
“You’ve time to figure that part out.”
The tumbleweed I’ve been tracking breaks free from the brush as we speed by, and I’m suddenly lighter.
“When is your asshole father returning again?”
A flutter of excitement licks across me. “A few days.”
He smiles. “Let’s drive to Vegas.”
My jaw drops. “You’re going to marry me?”
He jerks back like I slapped him. “Marry? No fucking way.”
The thought deeply disturbs him, I can see it on his face. Lord, I feel like sinking between the springs in this seat.
“Jesus. Nothing personal. I’m not the marrying type, is all.”
“You said we’d go to Vegas,” I grind out. “What else would I think?”
“Look. Your father runs California. Vegas is Luca Ricci’s territory and a safer bet. I’ll find the best location where you can get what you need—bogus birth certificates, social security cards, and several passports.”
I immediately warm up to the idea. “Okay.”
“As for disappearing, follow the three Ds; dodge, distract, and delay.” He holds up a finger, mimicking my earlier actions.
“Plant so many false leads your father’s head will spin.
” A second finger joins the first. “Lay breadcrumbs for him to follow, far away from your actual escape route.” Finger number three rises.
“Use decoys dressed like you. If you time everything out, there can be a Fina sighting in San Diego, then another on the Mexico border in thirty minutes.”
“I’ve two high school friends who despise my father.”
“Lie. Tell them it’s a game.”
My friends know little about my family, or how important my father’s position is in the famiglie. No reasonable person would aid a mafioso’s daughter’s escape.
“Rent a private plane in cash from a small airport. You need to be in the air soon after you leave your house. You can pick up an international flight from Denver. By the time the trail you’ve laid runs cold, you’ll hopefully be somewhere safe.”
“I don’t know if I can pull it off.”
He snorts.
I bite my lip, considering his words.
“Turn the car around.”
My heart skips a beat. “You’ll help me?”
“Yeah, I’ll help you.”
I don’t hesitate. I jerk the wheel, spin us around, and aim northeast. Hope swells in my chest, reckless and hungry. If anyone can help me out of this Life, it’s Renzo Beneventi.
“Wait,” he commands. “I’ll rent a car.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head back, eyes rolling skyward like I’m the reckless one here. “He’ll know.”
“Relax,” I counter. “I’ll have it washed and polished to a fine shine, before I roll back the mileage.”
His eyes catch the light, all dark sparks and wicked amusement.
Lord, he’s devastating. A mind more devious, more clever than mine. But his laughter, low and sinful, tells me he sees straight through me … and appreciates every twisted inch.
Hours later, the car breaks down on the Mojave Fairway a few miles southwest of the Nevada state border.