“You’re not making any sense.”
He’s talking as if I’m a toddler or a crazy person. But I’m just a woman, sob-racked, breathing through snot, shoulders shaking too much to aim this gun at the side of a barn.
Useless. Valueless.
They’ll only give Dario up for someone they value more, and that isn’t me.
My tears dry up like a drop of water on a hot pan. I sniffle. Take my hand off the gun long enough to wipe my nose with my cuff.
“That’s better,” Massimo says.
“Is it?” I put both hands back on the gun, stalling, while I look for the place where the gate’s power meets its motor. “Is it really?”
Dario said he’d shoot out the locks in Precious Blood, but I don’t know what to shoot to get out of here.
“Just open the gate,” he says, with no understanding of the situation. All he knows how to do is give orders.
By force of will, I quell my shaking shoulders. I won’t be able to shoot this gate open or drive away if I’m trembling like a child.
“If you say so.” I shoot at the lock at the center, where the two gates are joined.
They pop loose. Massimo ducks.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
“Open them!” I bark while sliding and clicking the gun mechanism. I get in the car without even seeing if he obeys me. I put it in drive and look up to find Massimo pushing the gates open.
I don’t have time to be shocked or pleased. All I have time for is letting up on the brake, letting the car roll forward, next to Massimo’s, where I stop.
“Massi.”
He leans into my window and says, “I need you to come with me.” Massimo speaks like a brother whose sister has always done what she was told. “I’m in charge now. They got Dad.”
“In a donut shop,” I murmur, completing the sentence.
Now all I got is a popsicle.
“So, you know.” Massimo taps his fist on the top of the door. “Murdered him on the fucking toilet.”
He expects me to feel something. A delicate feminine sadness. Maybe a gun-toting, murderous rage. What I feel is nothing.
“If Dad’s dead,” I say, “and you’re in charge now, that makes you really valuable for a trade.”
“A what?” He shakes his head to get out the last of his sister’s nonsense. “Goody. Wake up. Our father was stabbed to death.”
He still thinks I want to go see Daddy’s body and weep behind a black veil.
“It’s a good idea, and no one gets hurt. Please do it, Emo. It’s no skin off your back at all. You’ll just go be in charge like you were always meant to be. I’ll get Dario back and we—he and I—we’ll go away. I swear, we’ll never set foot in New York again. You’ll forget I even existed. Just let me trade you.”
“You’re talking crazy.” He opens the Buick’s door but doesn’t grab for me. “Let’s go. Right now. Come on.” He backs up, takes five steps to his car, and opens the door to get in. “And leave the gun before you hurt someone.”
I take the rifle and stand with the barrel to him. “You know I know how to shoot this thing!”
“You got lucky half the times you’ve used it.”
“Don’t make me shoot you.”
“Okay, fine.” He puts his hands up and comes to me, smirking.
“You drive.” I step aside.
“You really had a time of it, didn’t you?” Instead of going straight to the driver’s seat, he leans in my direction, and his intention to grab the gun is the clearest thing I’ve ever known.
I shoot him.
He falls, holding his leg, screaming.
“I’m sorry, Massimo,” I say too quietly for him to hear as I toss the rifle into the passenger seat. “I was aiming for your shoulder.”
He’s bleeding. He could die. He’s useless dead.
I push the front seat forward and yank my brother up.
“Why?” he screams.
“Just don’t die.” I put his arm around my shoulder.
“Why did you do it?” He follows with a string of curses through his teeth.
“Because what I value is important. Lean on me and your good foot. Come on.”
“What you value? What are you talking ab—?” He’s past screaming, but grunts, red-faced, when the pain is too much.
“Easy does it. One more.” I let him use me as a crutch to get into the back seat, then I slap the door shut.
Okay.
I have this.
I’m not smart enough or experienced enough to execute this plan. Dario would be ashamed of how little I’ve thought it out, but I’m brave enough and more than desperate enough to get killed trying it.
First, I’m going to drive this car.
TO BE CONTINUED
BREAK ME is the last book in the series.
Get it everywhere.
If you’re looking for something to tide you over until book three is out, I recommend The DiLustro Arrangement…a complete mafia romance trilogy.
When he forced me to marry him, I cried for love I'd never know.
When he locked me away, I cried for the freedom I lost forever.
Every other tear I've shed is for my soul, because I'm falling for the devil himself.
Mafia Bride | Mafia King | Mafia Queen
You can start it now with MAFIA BRIDE!
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I was 19, I had a 1970 Buick Skylark. 350 V8. Cherry red with white interior and convertible top. Manual steering and brakes. One of the first US-manufactured catalytic converters. It was the most baller thing I’ve ever owned in my life. After driving it for a few months (I was fucking fabulous), my dad sent it to the mechanic for power brakes. I pulled it out of the parking spot and—because my muscle memory was used to the manual braking—proceeded to stop at the corner with an ear-splitting screech. I almost had a makeout session with the windshield. The rubber I laid down on that day is still there.
The kind of estate Dario’s set up for the safe house probably exists in Yonkers, but it may or may not be in view of the light from the Executioner’s Lighthouse. I couldn’t figure out how to know that without going there myself. As much as I’d love a research trip home, actually flying across the country to check for lighthouse flashes seemed overkill.
I’m intrigued by the idea of illegal trade in post WWII artifacts, so you’ll probably see more stuff from partigiani and Italian Blackshirts as I build up this world.
This book—in particular—took a village of professionals, including but not limited to: Lyric Audiobooks for coordinating a perfect audio version in the nick of time, Laurelin Paige, who had the balls to be dead honest about the “final” draft, Cassie from Joy Editing who bent over backwards to get the job done, and Amy Vox Libris who made sure my left foot wasn’t up my ass. No word on the whereabouts of the right foot, however.