Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RENZO
“I underestimated you,” my father says the moment he picks up.
No hello. No “How is Rome treating you?” Just that.
I savor the compliment like a rare vintage Chianti.
“Did you have to saw Cardini’s head off?” he adds, dry as dust, like we’re discussing another asinine political decision we’ve numbed our ears to.
“Would you prefer I left it attached?”
Dante, seated behind his desk, steeples his fingers and watches me like I’m both his greatest asset and biggest headache.
He’s just glad I’m the one on the phone now.
“Some of the Eleven are pissed about that little threat you tacked on at the end of the video,” my father continues. “But fuck if anyone’s whispering that we’re weak. Not anymore.”
Annoyance sets in, as Dante chimes in, “Gave them something to think about.”
I shoot him a look. If he were closer, I’d elbow him.
My father growls. “Other than the millions in frozen assets?”
I sigh. “My Chicago contacts are working on it.”
“Fix what you broke. Capisci?”
Shit. Any doubts my father hasn’t figured out what I’ve done go up in fucking smoke.
“Crystal.”
“Good. Now tell me you had nothing to do with Elia Lombardi’s disappearance. I told you to leave her the fuck alone.”
I feel Dante’s eyes drilling into my skull. I keep my face blank. “I haven’t been in contact with her since that day in your office.”
“You didn’t marry her, did you?”
Jesus. Might as well toss all my dirty laundry on Dante’s lap. “Still single, thanks.”
“You know where she is?”
“No.”
But the dark edges of my memory shift just enough to let a thought click into place. Shit, I might know. Still not telling, though.
“Her father’s losing his shit, and his damn shirt. Without Carlo, he can’t pay off his debts.”
“Cry me a river.”
Dante raises his brows, amused.
“Fuck off,” I mutter.
My father goes quiet, and I immediately realize why. “Not you,” I add quickly. “That was meant for Dante.”
“I’m still going to beat your ass for the mess you’ve stirred up.”
“If that’s all I get, I’ll take the beating.”
“Have you spoken to Massimo Grassi?” Something in his tone shifts.
“No.” I pause. “Why?”
“Dante, you hearing anything from Sicily?”
Dante straightens. “Should I be?”
My father’s silence makes us sit straighter. “Don Tito Grassi was gunned down leaving Sunday mass. No one’s claimed responsibility. Not a word from the Cosa Nostra.”
Well, shit. Massimo is head of his famiglia now.
“I’ll ask around,” Dante says. “Find out which fool within the Cosa Nostra dares execute a Grassi.”
I tap my fingers against my thigh. “It doesn’t track. The Cosa Nostra loves theatrics and usually turns assassinations into parades. Why stay silent? You’d think they’d challenge Massimo’s power.”
“True.” My father grunts. “But we won’t take sides, not yet.”
“Right.”
“Renzo.”
“Just checking.”
“I’ll amend. We use discretion. You need me to spell that out for you, you little shit?”
Dante laughs.
“I get it. No neon signs pointing our way.”
My father grumbles something close to affection. “We’ll talk again when we learn more.”
The call ends.
The oppressive air in the room finally lifts, and I exhale.
But two thoughts linger:
Will Massimo retain power?
And why the fuck did Fina choose Rome as her new beginning?
FINA
“He’s here,” Camilla hisses, barreling into the kitchen like she’s outrunning a tsunami.
Bianca freezes midchop. “Che cazzo? He has the nerve to walk into my restaurant and eat my food?” She slams the knife down. “Do I look like second best to you?”
“No,” Camilla and I chorus.
Aunt Teresa shakes her head but keeps stirring her sauce. Tossing Dante Lucchese’s cheating ass out of his restaurant isn’t an option. He’s lucky Bianca’s not cooking tonight, or he’d be choking on clams marinara and regret.
“I refuse to wait on him.”
“Fina and I will cover for you.” Camilla helps clean the freshly chopped vegetables off the cutting board, and wisely moves the knife away from our friend. “You stay in the kitchen until he leaves. He doesn’t get the privilege of your attention, not after whoring around.”
We grab plated orders and head out. But the moment we push onto the floor, I stop dead in my tracks.
“Him again,” Camilla mutters.
Renzo … here?
No, no, no.
He’s laughing at something Dante said, looking like sin in a suit. Clean-shaven, hair cropped short, his tailored jacket molded to his shoulders rather than hanging off his frame.
The world’s most handsome heartache.
God’s clearly still punishing me for stealing in His house. No man who ruins hearts with a smile and walks away like it’s mercy should look that good.
I backtrack. “I’m not going out there.”
Camilla glances from him to me. “He won’t recognize you from last night.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Wait. You do know him?”
Does anyone know Lorenzo Beneventi?
“Cazzo,” she breathes. “You do.”
I thrust the plate into her hands before she can drown me in questions I’ll never answer, then slip behind the kitchen wall, out of sight, unsettled, and burning with a curiosity I know will ruin me.
While I hide, Camilla plays waitress, delivering dishes with that effortless smile of hers. But when she circles back, she stops short near his table, glances at me, and gives a small shake of her head before moving away.
Bianca slides up beside me. “The balls on that man.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I mutter.
Camilla comes around the corner in a mad rush, grabs us both by the elbows, and drags us into the back storage room. She kicks the door shut behind us.
“What?” Bianca and I shout in unison.
“He’s asking for the blonde,” Camilla blurts.
My stomach plummets.
Bianca’s face contorts. “The blonde from last night?” She snatches a clean knife from the storage room shelf and storms the door. “I’ll carve him into pieces and add him as an anchovy appetizer.”
“Wait, no!” Camilla lunges.
But Bianca’s already halfway through the kitchen.
“Wrong blonde.”
I freeze. “What do you mean?”
“Dante didn’t speak to me. It was the other man, the one you assaulted last night.”
My throat dries. “What did he say?”
“He asked for the nosy blonde with the wicked temper.”
Oh, hell.
“I told him he was mistaken, that no one here fit that description.”
“And?”
She gives a tight shrug. “He said blondes aren’t really his type anyway.”
I scowl, confused and insulted. But we don’t have time to dissect his words because shouts erupt from the dining room.
Bianca.
We burst out of the storage room and into chaos. Aunt Teresa’s already charging through the kitchen, with us on her heels.
I tuck behind the kitchen wall as Bianca’s screams echo around the restaurant. “You playboy. Coming in here and throwing your other women in my face.” In her hand is an empty plate.
Dante is on his feet, sauce dripping from his crotch.
Aunt Teresa’s blotting the mess with a cloth napkin while Camilla, not knowing what to do, hovers beside her.
And Renzo? I expected his laughter, not his silence.
That’s how I know this is bad. Boyfriend or not, you don’t embarrass the second-most powerful man in the Eleven.
Aunt Teresa and Camilla are as white as the tablecloths.
Bianca steps back, realizing her mistake.
But Renzo? He’s calmly speaking to the enraged man. Whatever Renzo says, Dante nods, and then sits back down like none of this happened.
“Nothing to worry about. Just a clumsy accident,” Renzo declares, offering a lie, and a story the gossipers can whisper about. “Enjoy your meal. Dinner and drinks on us.”
The guests return to their meals, and the shaken trio returns to the kitchen.
“You silly girl,” Aunt Teresa scolds.
Camilla exhales. “Dante looked ready for murder. Thank God he stepped in.”
Bianca is so quiet you can hear a pin drop.
I exhale. Crisis averted.
Except, is it really?
The rest of the evening blurs into motion, with Bianca leaving early and us covering for her. Camilla works the floor while I break down the kitchen, pretending I’m fine, though my mind won’t stop circling questions I don’t want answered.
Why was he here? Why ask about the blonde?
Rome is my fresh start, I remind myself. That asshole has no business being here.
It feels like hours before Renzo and Dante finally leave. I help Camilla clear the tables, trying to shake the weight of it all.
Which is how I end up standing here, hand trembling around an empty wineglass, staring down at the table they left behind.
His plate is clean—spotless—except for one thing.
Bright red. Juicy.
Not on tonight’s dessert menu.
Oh, sweet hell.
A strawberry.