Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
FINA
I return to Los Angeles with a bruised lip, a wide smile, and a renewed spring in my step.
Sebastiano Beneventi’s interrogation was brutal. For a nerve-racking moment, I was certain he knew I’d stolen from him. The thought still makes me shiver. What would the consequence have been? A one-way trip to the Beneventi dungeon? A shallow grave beneath the golf course?
Would Renzo have let that happen?
That question consumes me. I keep replaying the moment he burst into the library like a man possessed, took down three mafiosi with terrifying ease, and then launched himself at his father.
Seeing his violent side was thrilling. He knocked the guard who’d hurt me out with a single punch. Risked his father’s anger, for me.
I could’ve used that version of him back when I was cornered by Emo.
The answer to my question seems clear: no.
But what’s that expression? Once bitten, twice shy?
Renzo has always been a contradiction, furiously loyal one moment, absent the next. I’m grateful he showed up when he did, yet I’d be a fool to lose myself in the what-ifs.
Not when I have more urgent things to deal with, and a week to fade into the sunset.
“Goddamn it, Elia.” My father’s shout echoes around the living room. “Didn’t I tell you to never fuck around with the security cameras?”
“I was trying to help,” I holler back. “They were dirty, Father.”
I smirk when he grumbles about calling system experts back to the house to fix them. I should warn the cleaning staff they’ll be getting an earful.
“Headed to the beach,” I call out once more. “Be back later.”
“Wait. Carlo is calling about the wedding plans …”
His eager tone twists my stomach. He’s salivating at the chance to impress Accardo, ready to parrot back the information I spoon-fed him on the plane: a neat, easy-to-remember mental diagram marking the precise location of the pipe leading straight into the Beneventi estate.
Sebastiano Beneventi’s a smart man, and I hope he’ll take my advice seriously.
I close the door behind me.
Smiling.
It’s my twenty-first birthday, and the only gift worth having is the one I’m giving myself—freedom.
By the time the dust settles, I’ll be gone, gone, gone.
Three days. That’s how long until I’m expected in Chicago, walking down the aisle in a church Carlo picked, in a wedding I never agreed to.
I’m cutting things close. But every i needs to be dotted, every t crossed because, once this escape is in motion, there’s no turning back. It’s do or die. Literally.
Tomorrow’s the big day.
Speed and precision are everything. I booked a private, early-morning charter to Dallas under an alias, paid entirely in cash. From there, a direct flight to Rome. By the time my father realizes I’m gone, I’ll be sipping limoncello in front of the Colosseum.
My two decoys are already in play. Do I feel bad about deceiving them? A bit. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and besides, if they’re caught, they know nothing. Truly.
They think I’m screwing with my father again, the way I do by dressing in the clothes I wear.
One friend is already on her way to San José, decked out in the same hideous neon pink tracksuit I’ll be wearing while having breakfast with my father.
With all that money at stake, he’ll come after me, for sure.
And Carlo? Once an arrogant asshole, always one.
He’ll hunt for me, too, outraged that a na?ve and sheltered little girl jilted him.
Another sighting places me in San Francisco, having rented a car under the name Elle Lombardo. Subtle? Not exactly. But I know exactly who I’m dealing with.
Their first stops? Obvious—LAX and San Diego. Then the bus stations, where they’ll find reports of a woman matching my description catching a 10 a.m. Greyhound to San José.
I’ve timed everything to the minute and alternated the timing of each sighting, with the last breadcrumb in Vancouver, where I vanish into the Canadian wilderness.
A carefully crafted crumb trail.
If it weren’t for the stolen money, I might not have pulled off my plan. I still can’t believe Don Beneventi never noticed such a large sum was gone or suspected me. He’s probably side-eyeing the Eleven, wondering why they were so stingy with their wedding gifts.
Life might never be a fairy tale, but I’m over living in a nightmare.
“Seraphina,” my father bellows.
I zip my bags and hide them inside my closet. “Coming.”
My father waits at the bottom of the stairs. “Goddamn it.”
“What’s the matter? Cameras not working again?” They are. But not for long.
The doorbell rings. Then again. And again.
My father’s eyes start twitching, voice edged with panic. “What the hell is he doing here?”
“Who?”
“Motherfucking Settemo Accardo. He parked his Ferrari in the driveway.”
The doorbell won’t stop, or be ignored.
“Is Carlo with him?”
“I spoke with him an hour ago. He was headed to his favorite restaurant in Chicago.” My father’s gaze cuts toward the door, then back to me. “You answer it.”
“Me?”
“No. The other idiot standing in the room.”
That would be you, Daddy Dickless.
I run through the options in my head. Escape or bluster through this. My friends aren’t in place, and everything’s set for tomorrow. But the thought of seeing Emo makes the scar on my wrist throb.
The doorbell blares.
I swallow hard, square my shoulders, and move to the foyer to answer it.
Settemo Accardo’s scowling face greets me, flanked by a few unrecognizable mafiosi.
“Well, if this isn’t a surprise,” I say brightly, a stupid smile plastered on my face, as if I’d long since forgotten the burn mark on my skin. “What are you doing in Los Angeles?”
“Your father home?”
He sounds hopeful. Like he hopes to catch me alone. Creep. “Yes, he is. Right in the living room.”
Bile rises in my throat at his disappointment.
His heavy presence trails behind me, setting every nerve on edge. He smells like formaldehyde, like he’s spent time in a lab full of decomposing rats. Like he pulled the short stick, then had to scour the psycho ward. The closer he gets, the harder it is to breathe.
“Settemo. I wasn’t expecting you,” my father says stiffly. “Does Carlo know you’re visiting?”
“Carlo won’t give a single shit that I’m here.”
So, that’s a no.
“Can I get you and your men a drink?” I offer, already moving toward the bar. “Wine? Beer?”
“Whiskey. Neat. They’ll have the same.”
My hand shakes as I pour. I listen closely, trying to read the undercurrent in their voices, to guess the reason for the unpleasant surprise.
It can’t be good.
So the question really is, how bad will it be?
My father clears his throat. “How long have you been in Los Angeles?”
“Few hours.” Emo’s tone is clipped, sharp.
Confusion still edges my father’s tone. “You drove from Illinois to California?”
“How do you know that?”
I roll my eyes.
My father states the obvious. “You parked your Ferrari in my driveway.”
I place the crystal glasses on a tray and carry it over. The room’s so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. I glance from my father to Emo, whose face is flushed with rage.
“You recognize my car?” Emo snarls.
Shit. Oh shit.
My father’s eyebrows pinch. “Well, yes? Your uncle showed me pictures of it, but we also saw it—”
“I poured you a whiskey, too, Father.” I cut him off, handing each mafioso a glass except for the man I shortchanged. “Oops,” I murmur. “Must have miscounted.”
No one’s listening to me.
Emo downs his whiskey, slams the glass onto the tray, and then snatches the glass from the man next to him and polishes it off, as well.
Then he strikes. “I’ve a question to ask, the same question I’ve asked numerous men ever since your last visit with my uncle. I can fucking smell a lie a mile away, so choose your answer carefully.”
“Okay …” my father warily replies.
“Do I look like a cunt stud to you?”
My father jerks like he’s trying to induce whiplash. “What?”
“Cunt. Stud,” Emo enunciates. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“Well … wah … shit … wado … you mean?”
“I want twenty grand for the damages.”
“Twenty grand?” Like flint to kindling, my father finds his voice. “For what damages?”
“To my car!” Emo roars. “In cash. Get it now, or you won’t live to see the wedding.”
No way will I be left alone with this madman and his men while my father leaves the room.
“Oh my God. Your language.” I drop the tray and cover my ears. “Vulgarity isn’t allowed in our house.”
Everyone stares daggers at me.
“I need a broom for the mess I’ve made,” I exclaim, then flee to the kitchen.
I hear my father loudly empathizing with the psycho. Sharing how his dear cherry red Mustang was recovered in the California desert with irreversible damages. How blood had ruined the custom leather backseat.
My father is the worm that survives a heat wave while lying on the California freeway. I wouldn’t be surprised if Emo leaves empty-handed.
And there was mention of the wedding. I won’t die today.
Act normal. Get through this visit. You can do it.
I enter the pantry off the kitchen to retrieve the broom. I’ve got the handle in hand when Emo fills the doorway, blocking out the light.
Stupid, stupid mistake.
I imagine him crawling out of the dark, wearing another man’s skin, just to see who breaks first. A chill settles over me.
“Found it,” I exclaim, holding the broom across my body like it’ll protect me.
His eyes are dead. His smile pure evil.
He steps forward and wrenches the broom from my hands. I clatters to the floor behind him.
“But I need that to clean up.”
He grabs me and slams me back into the pantry shelves. My arm is wrenched up and twisted behind me so fast I can’t react. A jolt of pain shoots through my shoulder.
“What do you want?” I gasp. My chest tightens. Panic climbs, and I can’t breathe right.
He says nothing.
Only silence and the sound of my own ragged breath.
Finally, he speaks. “You know what to do.” A pack of cigarettes and a lighter drop onto the shelf beside my face. “You piss me off, you pay.”
I try to placate him. “I’m sorry.”
“Things will be different in Chicago. You drop a tray like you did tonight, and I’ll leave burn marks across your body.”
What can I say to make him release me, some line that will pacify him? “I’ll be a new girl in Chicago. A good one.”
He laughs, and it’s vile. He’s enjoying fucking with me.
His breath smells sour as his lips graze my earlobe. The urge to hurl is great.
“We’ll practice tonight.”
My brain scrambles to decode his words.
He thumbs his phone, the cigarettes forgotten. “You left an impression on me, and I’ve been thinking about this since your visit.” His tone reads eager. I’m terrified to learn why. “But I couldn’t remember your size to prepare.”
Prepare?
He presses play on a video.
What I see is worse than anything I could imagine.
I blink, trying to understand what I’m viewing. A person lies still on a cement floor, completely engulfed in a white latex catsuit. Only the eyes, nostrils, and mouth are exposed. She can’t move. She doesn’t even try.
The terror in her gaze is unmistakable.
Oh God.
She looks like something discarded. Not a person anymore. Just a shell.
“What is this?” I whisper.
He presses his erection into my back, and my stomach turns.
“Your future.”
This excites him. He gets off on this. The control. The fear.
“But Carlo …”
“I’ll be our secret.”
“Whatever you want.” My voice quivers even though I want to scream. “I swear I won’t say a word.”
He punches me. Once. Twice. A third time.
The pain is searing. I double over, hugging my side.
“Get back in the living room and clean up your mess. Then you’ll practice not being such a clumsy bitch.”
He grabs the cigarettes and lighter, the video still playing on his phone, then vanishes.
You can do it, Fina. You won’t be alone with him. The worst is over.
The men are seated when I return. Rolls of hundred-dollar bills on the side table nearest Emo.
I make quick work of the broken glass.
“Drinks, anyone?” Emo demands.
I don’t wait. I push down the pain and return to the bar, pour four more whiskeys, place them on a tray, then serve the men. My hands are steady this time, but only because I force them to be.
“My uncle hates incompetency,” Emo says. “Fill that tray with glasses and keep crossing the room until I say stop.”
I glance at my father.
He says nothing. Just watches, forehead furrowed.
No outrage. No protection.
I’m on my own.
Tears threaten. I blink them away.
I carry the tray. I walk. I return. Over and over. My body screams, but I ignore it. I smile like it’s a game. Cunt stud. Cunt stud. Cunt stud.
Again.
And again.
Until the pain blends into the rhythm of my steps.
Emo claps. “Faster.”
I nod, moving quicker, though my ribs feel ready to shatter. He watches me like he’s already got me zipped up in rubber. And I thought cigarette burns were torturous.
Time slows. It feels like this hellish nightmare will never end.
Then his phone rings.
His men’s phones buzz too.
I’m twenty-one, and have seen so little of the world. Barely have had a taste of what freedom feels like. Just once, I want to be loved, happy, alive, safe …
My gaze falls on Emo, then widens.
Gone is the coldness. In its place, a storm of disbelief and fury.
“Fucking strawberries?” he snarls, lurching to his feet, fists clenched, jaw grinding. “How did this happen? Why wasn’t I called sooner?”
His men, phones lit up, exchange sharp looks.
“We need to get to Chicago.”
They leave in a rush. No goodbyes. No thanks for the hospitality, the fun and games.
I trail after them and watch, overwhelmed with relief, as Emo and his men peel away in his Ferrari.
My father’s on the phone when I come back into the living room.
“What happened?” I ask. I’m begging silently for good news, like Carlo’s men were caught breaking into the Beneventi estate.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” My father paces the room, much like I’ve been doing, except he’s completely, utterly unraveling.
“Answer me,” I insist. “What happened?”
“Carlo is dead.”