Vengeance: DARK MAFIA ROMANCE

Twenty-two

Savio

I hope this chair isn't expensive. The end of the arm is cracked down the middle, and my fingernails have left deep gouges in the wood. When the old family is involved, there are so many formalities that these meetings, which could have taken hours, go on for days. We've shared a lot of loaded greetings and platitudes, and now we're moving on to reciting notable events from each territory in the last twelve months. All the while, Vincente's empty seat mocks me.

If only I had my phone, I could at least call the hotel and make sure Natalia was safe. No one is allowed to retrieve their phone during breaks, and the men in the front hall would refuse to return my belongings if I left while the meeting was in progress. My helplessness fills me with rage, and the black monster inside me grows bigger and stronger, until I'm starting to lose my sense of reason. I've never been able to save someone I loved. It's happening all over again.

The first break is called; vague reasons are given, but everyone knows the boss needs regular heart medication. Giovanni hurries toward me, taking my elbow in his thick fingers. He's lucky I have just enough control left to avoid attacking him. "Italian food disagreeing with you, Savio?" He laughs. "You look pretty ill."

"Have you seen any of the Del Toros? Why aren't they here?"

Frowning, he glances around the room. "I assumed they weren't invited tonight, given the nature of our discussion. What's the problem?"

"Places were left for them at the table. They should have come, but they're not here."

He shrugs. "All the better to talk behind their backs, my friend."

Disgusting man. We've never been friends, not even close. He's just like all these other sycophant pricks; when the big bosses show up, they turn from tough guys into fawning ass kissers. The overly theatrical pomp and circumstance suffocates me; it's all hollow and brittle.

Shouldering away from Giovanni, I give Luca the slip and leave the banquet hall. I storm from room to room, looking for even a single Del Toro man. There are so many people I don't recognize, making my task impossible. Just when I'm about to give up, I spot an old-fashioned telephone tucked in a small office behind glass doors. Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching, I open one of the doors and slip inside. The room smells like tobacco and old books, but I know I won't find anything unusual here; it's not well protected enough. Likely no one uses it at all.

The phone is a bit tricky to work, but my habit of memorizing telephone numbers comes in handy and I'm able to dial the hotel. The quiet office is such a relief after the claustrophobic, noisy hallways. Finally, a sleepy voice answers in Italian, "Pronto."

"I'm a guest in the double room on the top floor." He'll know exactly what I mean; the hotel keeps careful track of its mafia-related guests. "I need to speak to my female companion."

"I'll put you through."

My heart pounds as the phone rings. Once, twice, three times. Four. Cold fingers of panic wrap around my heart. It rings until the line disconnects. Hands shaking slightly, I dial the hotel again. The desk manager sounds confused when he realizes I've called back. "The person in my room isn't picking up. Has she gone out?"

"The keys are still here," he confirms after a pause. I hear paper shuffling. "It looks like she ordered room service two hours ago."

"Well, she's not answering."

"Might she be asleep? Does the signorina take any sleeping medications?"

The plastic handset creaks beneath my fingers. "Fucking check on the room. Now."