Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
RENZO
Invigorated, I find her in the kitchen, but before I can speak, she shoves her phone into my chest. Right. Business before pleasuring her. It’s the way I’ll balance the famiglie with my own.
Dante answers on the third ring. “How is he?”
“He’s ready to reach out to Massimo.”
“Renzo,” he says, relief creeping into his tone. “How are you feeling?”
Humiliated. Humbled. Ashamed. “Alive,” I smoothly reply. “I’ll feel better once I talk to Massimo.”
“About that …”
I freeze.
“Grassi torched one of my fields, escalating the situation.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “I still want to meet him.”
“That’s your father’s call. And right now …”
Goddamn it. The asshole briefed him?
Fina watches me closely, too closely.
I turn my back to her, swallowing the fury building in my chest.
“He wants you in Rhode Island.”
“Fuck that.”
Dante sighs. “Just until you’re clean. He’s lined up some Ivy League therapist—”
“I’ve got everything I need right here.”
A dish clatters behind me. Proof she’s hanging on every fucking word.
I stalk across the kitchen and away from prying ears.
“Yeah, and your father ripped me a new asshole for involving her,” Dante mutters. “You made a deal with him to leave that poor girl alone? Hell, I’ve so many questions and can’t wait to hear this fucking story. If I thought he gave a damn where she vanished to, I’d have told him myself.”
Unease pulses through me. The last thing I want is Fina on my father’s goddamn radar, and what happened? I put her front and center, right up alongside me.
“Since we’re discussing your girl …”
I scowl. Not sure if it’s because of the label or his acknowledging Fina’s not some random hookup.
“Are you aware her shithead father made a new arrangement with Accardo?”
I blink, caught off guard. “What? He leave a note on his gravestone?”
“Settemo Accardo.”
Everything stills. “Go on,” I demand, dead serious.
“He gave her to him in exchange for all his debts to his uncle be forgiven.”
“Guess we put some feelers out and discover if he has strawberry allergies.”
Fina gasps behind me. I cross the kitchen again, already protecting her. She’d be in tears if she overheard what her father has done. I’d rather she cry over his casket.
“Don’t,” Dante warns, his voice low. “Word is out that she’s under my protection.”
I stiffen with outrage. “Yeah, about that—”
He cuts me off. “Want my advice?”
My silence should be answer enough.
“Your father wants you in Providence …”
“And you think I should tuck tail and crawl home? Leave my job? Ignore the shit brewing with Massimo?” I lean a hand on the counter, suddenly out of breath.
Pissing me off even more. “Do me a favor, since it’s your doctor who pumped me full of oxy—call my father and inform him that I give him my word I’ll get clean for good. That Fina will help me.”
“A good therapist …”
“I’ll see one after the bullshit with Massimo is resolved.”
“Are you trying to offend me? Orders are to leave Grassi to me.”
Not happening.
I can feel him on the other end of the line, grinding his teeth and dreaming up ways to force me to obey. His loyalty to my father is admirable, and a goddamn headache.
“I’ll communicate your message,” he grinds out. “Pass her the phone.”
My hand trembles, my body betraying me. Reminding me I’m not at one hundred percent, despite trying to convince myself otherwise.
“He wants to talk to you,” I say without turning.
From right fucking behind me and all up in my shit, she hooks an arm around me and snatches the phone from my hand.
I find the sink, crank the tap, and drink straight from it like a feral animal. I fucking feel like one, like I’d like to rip out my enemies’ throats with my teeth.
“Okay,” she says behind me, voice soft but steady. “But the restaurant’s busy. I can still work, right?”
Whatever he tells her, she agrees. “I promise.”
I count to three before I ask. “How long?”
“A month. Maybe more.”
A fucking month? Massimo won’t wait that long.
She draws up next to me. “What was that about strawberry allergies?”
I stare at the running water before turning the faucet off. “Not important.”
Her sigh fills the room, then I hear her shuffling about, organizing pots and pans that don’t need organizing. “You’re stronger than you think,” she blurts, the encouraging words spilling out before she can stop them.
“Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”
“I live by those words.”
That catches my attention. I turn, narrowing my eyes on her.
Her hair brushes her shoulders as she shrugs, backpedaling like she’s said too much.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I don’t tell her the problem isn’t whether I think I’m strong.
It’s about managing the egos of the men around me, all while trying to stop a goddamn war with the Cosa Nostra.
All while proving to every last one of them—my father, Dante, Massimo, Fina—that I’m the kind of motherfucker you sit back and take notice of.
FINA
I go about my day, desperate to shake the image seared into my brain. Squeezing my eyes shut only makes it worse. Renzo in the shower, stroking the thick length of his gorgeous cock, the flushed tip a sinful shade of pink. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
That wicked man deserves to be immortalized, bare-assed for the world to worship.
An Italian sculptor should carve him in marble—cock, smirk, and all—preserving every shameless detail.
His head tipped back as water cascades over his chest, that taunting wiggle of his ass, the slow glide of his hands like he’s performing for me alone.
A scandalous exhibition of a scandalous man, and every one of my dirtiest fantasies brought to life in real time.
A man clears his throat.
My eyes flash open.
“Questo non è il mio ordine per il pranzo,” the gentleman at my table comments, jarring me back to the present.
I bite my lip. I placed the wrong lunch plate on his table.
“Scusa,” I offer, then take the plate to the correct table.
Lord, I’m a hot mess.
Inside the kitchen, Aunt Teresa’s already on me. “Did you sleep enough, Fina? The farm is quiet at night, especially when you’re alone?”
“No,” I reply too fast. “I slept fine. Must be my hormones messing with me.”
She wipes her hand on her apron. “Fresh air will do you good. The market is open in the square, and I’ve a shopping list. Would you be helpful and pick up what I need?”
“Of course.” It’s a gorgeous day. A walk will clear my head.
Rome has big-city energy mixed with small-town charm. In California, you’d sit an hour in traffic while driving to a bougie farmers market, where tables with fresh vegetables are nestled against trendy IV stations.
Los Angeles’s farm-to-table trend has nothing on Italy’s open-air markets. The food here hits different, less chemical-tasting, more salt-of-the-earth.
Basket swinging on my arm, I stroll through the market, ticking off my prozia’s list, sampling as I go. A bite of fresh mozzarella, a sip of espresso handed over with a wink. Basil, rosemary, and grilled bread perfume the air. My senses are soon as full as my stomach, yet I feel lighter.
I’m at the last vendor when it happens. I swing my basket too hard, and a tomato leaps free. I stoop to retrieve it, laughing under my breath, until something shifts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man dressed head-to-toe in black.
He’s standing too still.
Watching too closely.
Then he disappears into the crowd like smoke.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
My hand goes for my gun.
He could be no one. Black is fashionable in Rome.
But my gut knows better. I’ve been around wolves my entire life. You don’t grow up as Matteo Lombardi’s sacrificial lamb without learning how to spot a predator.
And you sure as hell don’t ignore one.
I call an Uber to take me the few blocks back to the restaurant just to be safe.