Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
RENZO
Ass up.
That sums up my night so far.
I’m being tailed, and this time by mafiosi. Normally, I could lose them without breaking a sweat. Years of slipping by my father’s and brother’s men made sure of that. But that’s exactly why things have gone bottoms up.
My so-called security team spotted the tail and went full Rambo.
Guns out, chaos unleashed. The streets exploded in gunfire, stone facades crumbled like stale biscotti, locals running for cover.
But the mafiosi following me? They were sharp, trained, and vanished without leaving so much as a bloody shoe print behind.
No one left to interview. No answers about what they want with me.
Dante tried to argue and thought I should keep the protection. But he knew I would shake them anyway, and eventually caved.
Didn’t take long for the mafiosi to find me again. Now, as I lead them through the winding alleys of Rome, I get the sense this isn’t a hit. They’re not pushing, not closing in. I think they want to talk.
They’re going to earn the privilege.
It’s past midnight, and I’ve spent the better part of an hour toying with them. I play the part of an easy target, stumbling through the streets, half-drunk and unbothered. Now it’s time to blow their minds; maybe they’ll get a few other things blown too, if they’re bold enough.
I lead them into Rome’s most infamous sex club, La Vita Nera. The Dark Life. A place meant to mock La Dolce Vita, though I suppose it depends on how one defines pleasure.
The place is packed. The night’s already in full swing.
I breathe it in, sin, spice, and everything not nice.
A familiar hunger coils tightly in my gut.
I ache for a taste, to sink my toes into depravity, to feel it under my skin, between my teeth, slick on my tongue.
The thought of going into a scene sober is tempting, so fucking tempting.
It’d be a novelty, something completely foreign.
But I didn’t come to La Vita Nera for pleasure.
I head to the bar and order a vodka shot with two bottles on the side, sliding the bartender a thick roll of Euros. “Free drinks on me. I’ll take the bottles filled with water.”
He raises a brow, but says nothing, just nods and gets to work.
I dip two fingers into the vodka shot and touch them to my neck as if I’m dabbing on cologne. Just another layer to sell the illusion for when we finally speak, and they catch a whiff.
The scent hits hard. Familiar. Sharp. A promise soaked in heat and ruin.
An aching echo stirs deep within. Sharp, dangerous, familiar. It whispers promises I’ve heard before. Just one sip. One taste. No one will know. Just a little fun, a small blur to soften the edges.
It would be so easy.
Addiction doesn’t bargain, it steals. One swallow and I’ll ruin weeks of sobriety. And if that happens, I might not make it back this time.
I shake my head. No damn way am I fucking things up. I’m clean, and I’m staying that way.
You’ve got this, asshole. Mind over matter.
I grab the bottles, then stalk off, drinking from each as I go. The men step out from behind a red velvet curtain and fall in behind me. Just to fuck with them a bit more, I stop short and spin in their direction.
They dodge for cover.
Smirking, I sink into a velvet sofa shaped like a sapphire peanut. Then I drink, and drink, and keep drinking, flooding my bladder with enough water to wash away decades of damage.
Two gorgeous creatures wander over, naked as the day they were born, to sit beside me. I toss an arm around each of them.
“Perché te ne stai seduto qui, così bello, tutto solo?” I’m asked. Why am I alone? Technically, I’m not.
Her friend chimes in. “Sembri così delizioso da volerlo mangiare.”
“Delicious enough to eat?” I pull them both in tighter. “Or violate?”
“Oh, he’s dangerous, this one,” she declares.
If they only knew.
This club is infamous for its back room—the Vault. A large area divided into a dozen private theaters tucked away behind heavy curtains and framed by oversized one-way windows. A voyeur’s dream and an exhibitionist’s delight.
Let’s give these bastards a night to remember.
I stand. “Show me the Vault.”
It takes time to cross the club with my half walk, half stagger. Once we pass security and are inside, I direct the two into a vacant room, while I hover outside in the large corridor, calculating how long it’ll take for the men pursuing me to appear.
I’m raising a half-empty bottle to my lips when they push inside, and I hit the button to the curtains with my elbow.
Game on.
The two women appear, and the mafiosi practically piss themselves.
The corridor darkens as the women get busy. One of my ladies is dildo-ed up and the other wiggling her hips.
I can practically smell the sweat clinging beneath the men’s tailored suits, desire a sudden slap in the face. Tension in the corridor builds as the moans through the open vents get louder.
Light abruptly interrupts the show, angering everyone, even the mafiosi.
The Vault door is hastily shut and the interruption immediately forgotten.
But they’ve had a taste, and I’m growing bored with the game.
I drop the bottles at my feet, shove off the glass, and stagger toward the emergency exit. Outside, I take a quick piss—no helping it. I’m tucking myself away when the door to the club swings open.
We’ve had our fun.
Now it’s time to get down to business.
RENZO
I might have underestimated them.
They swarm me, pinning me against the building. All three mafiosi are built like tanks, but it’s the biggest who grabs my throat, lifts me onto my toes, and presses a cold blade to my ribs.
“Lorenzo Beneventi?” he demands.
“Renzo,” I slur, squinting up at him.
They exchange looks, disbelief followed by visible contempt. I deserve an Oscar for my bumbling act tonight, don’t I? The man with the knife mutters something that makes all three shake their heads. “Ha detto che era furbo.”
That gives me pause. Who the hell warned them I’m clever?
Another one snorts. “Sembra che le voci fossero vere. Selvaggio e fuori controllo. Alcuni dicono perfino che sia un codardo. Il Beneventi debole.”
Translation? I’m a dumb fuck. The weak Beneventi.
Wrong assumption, motherfucker.
I flash them a crooked smile to hide the sting, the fact that the rumors spread this far. These three poked the bear now, and are clueless to the danger they’re in.
The knife pulls away, and I drop to my feet.
“What is this about?” I sway, trying to get a better read on them. “In English.”
A fist slams into my gut.
I double over, dramatically, then grunt and look up. “Who sent you?” If a few punches get me answers, I’ll take them. What intrigues me more is their restraint. They’re holding back. Orders are to rough me up without serious harm. Whoever’s in charge believes I’m worth more intact.
“He wants to speak to you privately.”
Bing-fucking-go.
I squint at them, assessing each. All three are muscled and dressed like they’ve stepped out of a mob flick. Definitely made men. Cosa Nostra written all over them. Then I catch it, a black and red tattoo peeking from under a cuff. The base of a cross I recognize.
The Grassi crest.
Massimo sent them?
That’s a surprise. The man has my number. He could’ve called. So why send muscle? Why the theatrics?
A sinking feeling drags through me, an answer that gives me pause. I test my theory. “Tell Massimo I send my condolences on his father’s passing.”
The silence resonates loudly. The big one tightens his grip on the knife. The other two look ready to pounce.
Holy shit. They think the Eleven killed Don Grassi.
“If we hear anything about who was involved, I’ll be in contact.”
Their laughter is bitter, sharp.
“He knows who did it,” says the tattooed one, voice rough with contempt.
Well, fuck. That tone says it all. Things have turned sideways.
“Massimo believes my family murdered his father?”
The largest man steps in, his breath brushing my face. “My brother, as well.”
It’s been years since I prowled the streets with Massimo. We were close, brotherly, with common interests. Yet affiliated with different famiglie with different agendas.
“You’ll live if you deliver two messages to Massimo.”
They don’t expect my calm.
“Live, motherfucker?”
“One,” I say, voice even. “I’ll meet with Massimo. Anywhere. Anytime.”
They’re listening, but words won’t be enough. Massimo put hands on me, and no one, not even an old friend or a rival mafioso capo, threatens a Beneventi without repercussions.
I won’t disappoint my father by being insulted this way.
This needs to be a message they’ll remember. Then they can crawl back to Massimo and tell him exactly who I am.
I lower my voice, luring them closer. “Two. Tell Massimo …”
That’s when I see her out of the corner of my eye.
Fina.
Jesus Fucking Christ.
She’s here.
Foolish and reckless. And in over her pretty head.
She’s getting better at stalking me. Or was I too consumed with Massimo’s men to notice her?
This changes everything.
They’ll see her. When they do, she’s dead.
I need to end this fast.
“And two …” I slam my forehead into the big guy’s nose. Bone cracks. Blood explodes.
The knife clatters to the ground.
Tattooed Guy lunges.
I catch his wrist and twist hard until it snaps.
The third man comes at me, blade flashing in the moonlight.
“Deliver my message to your boss before I really hurt you.”
That pisses him off.
He points the knife at me, lips curling. “You’re lucky I don’t carve you into pieces.”
I exhale. Crisis nearly averted.
“Hey!”
Her voice slices through the shadows. Everyone turns.
There she is. Fina, gun raised, eyes blazing.
Shouting erupts as panic spikes sharp in my chest.
Fina steps forward, waving the gun at the third man.
Then the big guy moves.
Crack. A deafening gunshot rings out.
I throw myself in front of Tattooed Guy, with barely enough time to react—if any of Massimo’s men die, war will erupt between our families. Fire burns through my chest, but I push forward and grab the big guy by the throat. “Touch her, and the deal is off.”
Our eyes lock, then I relax. He reads me perfectly.
“Let’s go,” he says to the men, voice calm.
The others hesitate, glancing from me to her, then follow him into the dark.
I fall to my knees, fading fast.
“Oh shit. Renzo …”
I stare at her, eyes wide, mouth trembling, then smile.
She shot me. She fucking shot me.
I always knew she’d be the death of me.