Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RENZO
Interesting things happen in the dead of night. Especially when no one is watching—or so you believe …
“Why are they hauling burlap sacks of pistachios into a shed in the middle of an olive grove?” the kid whispers.
We’re belly-down in the dirt, tucked into the tall grass just outside Vito’s property, running a damn-near-genius surveillance op on his secret side-hustle.
When my father shows the Eleven these photos, Vito Cardini is finished. Shame the greedy man won’t live to see the fallout. Springing to my feet, I take out a roll of Euros and toss it on the ground in front of him. “Good work, kid. Now it’s time to head home.”
He gathers the Switchblade 300 beneath his arm protectively, and we walk back to the Vespas. As he secures the drone, I turn my motorbike toward Vito’s estate. Photographs are one crucial part of my plan. But there’s more I’ve got to do tonight to become a made man.
“You’re not riding back to Rome with me?” the kid asks, finally noticing.
“You scared? Need me to hold your hand?”
He rolls his eyes, mounts his motorbike, and, flipping me the bird, takes off.
I must be rubbing off on the kid.
After two exhilarating hours of surveillance, I know everything I need to know to accomplish my goal.
I stop the Vespa and slip it between two ornamental bushes before heading up the driveway.
The guards are too busy arguing politics to notice me.
I move fast, pressing a gun to one’s gut while covering the other’s nose with a chloroform-soaked cloth. He drops like a stone. The first follows a heartbeat later.
No need to waste bullets, though I briefly consider making an exception for the one rambling about the pitfalls of democracy.
I bring the butt of my gun down on a third guard’s head and step sideways as his form crumples across the grand foyer.
Italians have an aversion to air-conditioning—something I’ve learned the hard way. But open windows make for easy surveillance.
The drone slipped in without a hitch, so now I know exactly who’s where inside the house, and more importantly, where Vito’s sleeping.
Luck would have it that his wife is in a separate bedroom. He a snorer? Or just an asshole?
I set up my phone and hit record, then remove the portable unfolding handsaw, a sharper and more deadly version of a Swiss Army knife, from my knapsack before climbing over his body and straddling his hips. All it takes is a firm slap to wake his ass up.
Smile for the camera, motherfucker.
He blinks, struggles, and nonsense spews out of him. “You dare fucking breaking into my home. You know who I am?”
“Vito Cardini.”
“You’re a dead man.”
He has no clue who he’s threatening. Neither will anyone viewing the video. Not until I tug off the black ski mask and show the world the truth hidden beneath it.
“Tell me about the pistachios.”
He jerks beneath me, surprised. “What pistachios?”
“The pistachios you stole from Dante Lucchese. The pistachios you have hidden away in a fucking shed in the middle of your olive grove. Did you think you’d get away with stealing from the Eleven?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
I smirk. “I’m your worst goddamn nightmare.”
He bucks beneath me.
I press the saw blade to his throat, slow and deliberate.
“Greed,” I whisper. “That’s what got you here. And you know damn well—stealing from the Eleven is a death sentence.”
My hand doesn’t shake. My pulse stays even. But inside, something electric surges—dark, euphoric. An endorphin-laced high floods my system, sharp as adrenaline, sick as pleasure.
This is my first kill.
And something in me snaps.
Mercy dies.
Conscience flickers out.
All that’s left is the rush.
His anger gets the better of him. “You’re a coward who can’t even show his face.”
I smirk, then rip off my hood.
He blinks, then blinks again. “Alessandro Beneventi.”
“Close.”
His eyes widen. And then he laughs. “Lorenzo Beneventi?”
“Correct.” I pause. “Anything you’d like to say to Dante?”
“Fuck you, you pussy. Everyone saw you freeze. Everyone whispers about what a weak bastard you are.” He tilts his head so the blade presses deeper. “What, was your brother not available?”
“Everyone’s whispering, huh?”
I drag the blade across his throat, deep enough to make him gurgle, to paint the sheets in red. Not deep enough to end it. Not yet.
“Since you’re my first,” I murmur, “the one who earns me my place … it’s only right you hear the truth first.”
I carve a second line, clean and parallel, beneath the first. His blood pulses out, hot and frantic. His eyes widen, pure terror blooming behind them.
“I didn’t freeze,” I say.
Then I smile.
“I was savoring the motherfucking moment.”
I clamp my hand over his mouth and start sawing. Slow. Merciless. His body jerks. Blood spurts, coats my arms, soaks the mattress, slicks the floor.
I don’t stop until his head is severed clean.
And then—like a goddamn medieval warrior—I rise, grip his hair, and step off the bed, dripping in death. I stalk toward the camera and lift the head high.
“For Dante Lucchese,” I say coldly.
I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my hand, lean in close, and let my voice drop into a growl.
“Any more whispers about me being the weak Beneventi, and you’ll be next.”
FINA
“Fina. The peas are clean enough, don’t you think?” Aunt Teresa calls out from her perch on a stool at the kitchen island.
I glance down at the water sluicing over the freshly shucked peas in the colander. I’m helping her prep for tomorrow’s special, a simple pasta e piselli that her customers rave about.
Who knew I’d be the kind of girl who enjoys sorting a morning harvest in a sun-warmed kitchen? But here I am—hands busy, nails chipped, and somehow … at peace.
In LA, dinner comes in sleek packaging with calorie counts, impossible expiration dates, and macronutrient buzz words scribbled like warnings. It’s convenient. Soulless.
Here, everything’s different. You can taste the earth in the food, sunlight in the tomatoes, rain in the herbs, something wild and real in every bite. There’s no plastic packaging between you and your meal. Just time. Hands. Heart.
I shake off the water and return to the table.
My friends in Los Angeles would laugh at the sight of me at my prozia’s kitchen table. But, although I miss them and can’t correspond with them, I’ve no plans on returning. Which leads to the other problem at hand—how involved is Aunt Teresa in the famiglie in Rome?
“Did you know the mafia run a club near the restaurant?” I casually ask, not elaborating further about last night’s unsettling discovery.
She pauses, fresh pasta between her fingertips. “Dante’s club.”
“Dante Lucchese?”
“He owns everything on the south side.”
My eyebrows touch my hairline. “Everything?”
She pats my hand. “Even the restaurant.”
Lord, I ran from the Eleven only to land like a dart in a bullseye.
“I thought you escaped the Life?” Never once did she sound strange over the phone or worried.
Never once did she complain or voice fear.
Never once did she mention she’s still part of the world I’m desperately trying to eradicate from my life.
“Fina,” she sighs, noticing my distress.
“There is no escape. Not really. You survive by being smart and by paying attention. Learn the rhythm of when to make yourself seen and when to vanish, when to speak and when to let silence speak for you. It’s finding brief moments to shine, balanced by knowing how to move within the shadows.
These mafiosi respect three things: brute force, money, and respect.
Prove yourself in one or more of these ways, and not only can you survive but flourish. ”
“My mother …”
Aunt Teresa winces, sadness filling her eyes, her voice almost a whisper. “She shone too brightly.”
“You make it sound like she had a choice.”
She shakes her head, slow and heavy. “She didn’t. She caught the eye of a weak man who craved power. The kind of man who devours the little he does control.”
“I’m glad I left him with nothing.” No Accardo bankroll. No cash on hand, or inside his safe. No daughter to sell off. “Exactly what he deserves.”
Because no matter how much time has passed, there’s still a little girl inside me, pressed against the front bay window, eyes fixed on the road, hoping her mother might come home. I’d do anything to learn the truth, learn if the rumors are true.
Aunt Teresa moves away from the table, then returns with a bottle of wine. Silently and despite the early hour, she pours two glasses.
“Tell me about the Eleven in Italy.”
She shakes her head. “Italy, America, there’s no real difference. Sebastiano Beneventi still rules without question. You know that. You were at his wedding.”
The wine now tastes bitter instead of sweet.
“But Rome belongs to Dante,” she continues. “We’re lucky, in a way. The Italian famiglie—the Youngbloods, Vito Cardini—they don’t have Dante’s power, brains, or sense of fairness.”
Her gaze drifts, softens.
Oh no. She isn’t crushing on Dante.
“His good looks,” I add, “his charm, his big dick energy.”
“Elia Seraphina.” Her face flushes. And my friends and I thought her mind was on her sauce and not fine-tuned to our vividly descriptive discussions?
“Am I safe?” I blurt out.
She frowns. “Your father’s proven himself untrustworthy. Odds are, he’s not in regular contact with the famiglie anymore. No one will stick their neck out for him.”
“And the Eleven?”
She studies my face—my worry, my panic. Because I don’t want to run again. I like it here.
“Learn the rhythm of this life, Fina,” she says gently. “Same way I did. And I promise you’ll find peace.”
Peace. Not safety.
And then my prozia does the most unexpected thing.
She reaches into the pocket of her flour-dusted apron, pulls out a small black object, and slides it across the table.
My jaw drops.
A gun, tucked in next to her wooden spoon and fresh oregano like it belongs there.
“Take my advice …” she says, as calm as she is wise. “… and this.” Like she’s handing me a biscotto and not a firearm.
But at this point, I probably shouldn’t be surprised.
This is Aunt Teresa, after all.
She pats my hand like a sweet grandmother and turns back to her pasta, humming softly as if she didn’t just arm me at the kitchen table.
Just before the rolling pin hits the dough, she adds, almost as an afterthought:
“A woman in this world can never be too cautious.”