Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
RENZO
It’s been a long, violent night.
I grab the balls of Grassi’s soldier and squeeze until his breath catches in his throat. He shuts up fast, while the other man—the same bastard who ambushed me outside the club and held a knife to my throat—stares wide-eyed, hog-tied, stripped, and curled like a baby in the fetal position.
Payback is a bitch, and that title I wear with pride.
My team and I are dug in on the Grassi estate. Beyond the stone walls, the Sicilian countryside stretches out in hard lines, dark olive trees and ancient farmhouses dots across the sunburnt earth. Citrus fragrances the air, but all I taste is a dry dust that scratches the back of my throat.
Midmorning’s a bad time for this; the sun’s too high, the air’s lost its crispness, and the drone buzz carries farther than I’d like. But I defied my father to speak to Massimo face-to-face. Time’s ticking, and initiating a conversation will require savviness, both his and mine.
First step, before shit begins, is to call my father. He picks up without a hello, and I swiftly get to the point. “I disobeyed an order.”
Silence. The kind that weighs on your chest, the kind I’ve endured more times than I care to remember. I wait him out, focusing on the kids setting up the equipment next to me.
Finally, he replies. “What’s your location?”
“South side on the hill.”
“The worst place to be,” he snaps with more emotion. “Get the hell out of there. Grassi has men crawling all over that hill.”
“Not anymore.”
It has been a night that tested the limits of my patience.
I cleared the hill soldier by soldier, using every trick in my arsenal.
Playing dead, springing up from the ground like I’m zombie hunting or in the remake of Apocalypse Now, stripping weapons from their hands before they could blink.
Seven bodies neutralized, tied, gagged. My new pal, the man worried about his reproductive capabilities, is in charge.
Every so often, I press a knife to his ball sack and make him report, “Nothing, boss.”
Massimo likes clean and orderly. I made his morning spotless.
“Sandro has eyes on them.” Pause, like my twin’s relaying information to my father live. “You left his men naked?”
“The consequence of failure. Massimo will understand.”
“If he’s not already dead,” my father grinds out.
I steel myself. “Ask me why I’m here.”
“She already told me why, you little shit.”
My brows lift. “Who did?”
“Elia Seraphina Lombardi. Turns up like a bad penny, hands out advice like loose change. Said this was your chance to prove yourself. Apparently, you’ve been denied that opportunity until now.”
Rome hangs in the air between us. I grit my teeth and wonder if that day will ever be behind us.
“Next, you’ll be demanding permission again to marry her.”
“Since you brought it up …”
“Enough.” His voice is sharp enough to cut skin.
“I’ve proof someone is pitting us against Grassi.” I forward two links from my phone. “Same clothing, same six men, same burn patterns, same style killings. Why else would Massimo escalate matters?”
His silence stretches as he watches the footage.
Impatient, I hurry him along. “I’ll find Dante before I speak to Grassi in person.”
“You’re not entering his house without men.”
“I’m not planning to.” Not initially, anyway.
A low laugh rumbles through the line. “My money better work.” Yeah, he understands what I’m about.
“If I had a military-grade drone, his entire estate would disappear with a single button pressed. You could do it from bed in Rhode Island, if Alessia can keep her hands off you long enough.”
“Not another fucking word.”
I smirk. He is always touchy about his sweet little wife.
“She said you were brilliant.”
“Your wife’s always been a fan.”
“Not Alessia. Fina.”
Well, shit. He used her name—Fina. Did I hear him right? They’ve been talking? Trading notes like old friends?
“Find Dante and report back immediately. I’ll have my experts study the videos and see if they can manipulate the pixels for a clearer image of the vehicles.”
It is a smart move, considering the poor resolution.
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t.
I clear my throat. “She said I was brilliant?”
The line goes dead.
“Alright, kids.” I grip the control board, and focus on the task at hand. They follow suit, eyes locked on multiple live feeds I’ve booted up onto a laptop. The drones rise, blades slicing the quiet morning sky, and vanish overhead.
“Showtime.”
Massimo’s estate is locked up tight—did I expect anything less?
I grind my teeth, scanning for weakness. Nothing. Then the kid crouched beside me flashes a thumbs-up.
Final-fucking-ly.
Eyes locked on the live feed, I send them off and slowly descend toward a window completely out of place. Not only is it wide open, but a knotted bedsheet dangles from the sill and down along the stucco facade.
“Looks like someone’s escaping,” the second kid murmurs.
“They’ll break their neck before they reach the ground,” the first mutters. “There’s, like, a fifty-foot drop.”
I glide inside, then freeze.
Cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by bedding, drapes, and clothes, is Luna Cecilia Gallo.
Don Gallo’s daughter is tying knots with the fury of someone ready to tear the world apart, her lips moving in a silent tirade.
I watch, fascinated, as she offers the wooden door behind her the Italian salute, then, unsatisfied, hurls the fabric away, storms over to the door, and wrenches it open.
Dante fills the doorway. His expression positively livid.
Well, shit. This is better than the front row at a fight club.
“What the hell is happening?” a kid exclaims.
Luna barrels forward and throws a shoulder into Dante’s body, knocking him back, then attempts to slam the door in his face.
Well, damn. Rumors don’t lie. She’s a firebrand.
To her dismay, the door bounces back open; he’s stopped it from closing with his foot.
She tosses up her hands and charges off.
That’s when he spies the drone.
Eyebrows pinched, he slowly puts the pieces together. When he does, he tosses his head back and laughs.
Luna spins around.
I’m fearful for my drone’s safety.
The kid next to me wiggles backward, distancing himself from the laptop, fearing for his own safety.
“Shame there’s no sound,” the second comments, wide eyes fixed on the laptop.
Dante appears well. Other than messy hair from forking his fingers through it and a wrinkled shirt. No visible wounds or bruising.
As if sensing my concern, he signals a thumbs-up before pointing to the window, and shaking his head no. To emphasize the point, he draws a line across his throat.
Cut.
Don’t attack.
I quickly text my father.
Dante fine. Signaling hold off.
“Boss,” the second kid cries out beside me. “I’ve been made.”
I hit send and turn to the feed.
“Fucking hell,” I grind out.
But it’s too late. From a balcony, Massimo aims a long-nose rifle at the drone and, with the press of a trigger, blasts it from the sky.
“Move. Before he reloads,” I order.
The first kid’s drone dives, skimming past Massimo and slipping inside.
Massimo follows, rifle ready, not giving two shits if he fires holes into the walls.
“Drop the note,” I say.
What happens later hinges on this moment.
Every mafioso in Sicily is watching and weighing whether I’m a man worth his name.
Was that one-off with Vito Cardini a fluke?
Are the whispers true? Can this wild and bent-in-the-head motherfucker deal with an enemy in a way that benefits everyone?
The deciding factor balances on whether Massimo Grassi picks up that piece of paper.
If he takes it, we talk. If not, things turn ugly fast and I look like a fucking fool. The weak Beneventi.
Massimo’s gaze locks on the drone’s lens, his eyes dark and unblinking, sharp enough to slice through steel. The muscles in his jaw flex. For a heartbeat, nothing moves. I can almost hear the decision grinding through his head.
Then, ever so slightly, he nods and picks up the note.