Page 63 of Knocked Up by My Dad's Mafia Boss

“I had to be sure, Dante.”

Hurt pierces through me. “You thought it wasme?”

“Don’t be offended,” Elio says quickly. “I just… I had to be sure.”

I frown. “And why are you sure now?”

“Because I didn’t tell you about the latest shipment. I sent three of my other men.” He pauses. “It takes three of them to equal one of you.”

The compliment doesn’t help the rock in my throat. “And it got hit?”

He nods. “Oscar was killed.”

I draw in a sharp breath. I know Oscar Moretti. Or… knew him. We all went to high school together. I wasn’t as close to him as Elio, but still… “Ricci?”

He scoffs. “Who else? Took one of his men, though. He’s in the basement panic room.”

My stomach rolls again, thinking about the panic room—the soundproof walls, the claustrophobic small space. All the instruments of torture set out on a metal table. The drain for the blood.

It’s been a while since I’ve had to use it. Years.

“You want me to interrogate him.”

“Yes. And I want you with me for the next shipment.”

“You’re going yourself?” I ask incredulously. “You can’t do that, Elio. If Ricci sees you?—”

Elio waves his hand dismissively. “He’s not going to be there. You know he doesn’t do his own dirty work. Not for years.”

Not since Grace.

He doesn’t say it, but I know that Luciano went underground when Grace passed away, as devastated by her death as Elio was. He’s barely been seen since.

“Still, it’s dangerous,” I warn.

“Not with you there.” Elio smiles.

“I’m glad you have such faith in me.”Now.“But Elio, if something happens to you…”

“It won’t. I’ve already called Ricardo, he’s coming to watch over Samantha.”

“Now?” I glance at my watch. “It’s nearly midnight.”

He smiles, showing his canines. It’s a dangerous, predator’s smile. “Exactly why he won’t be expecting us to be there. Hethinks I’m going to tuck my tail between my legs, lick my wounds after Oscar. He’s wrong.”

I let out a long breath. “And Ricci’s man in the panic room? Who is he?”

“I want you to interrogate him first. Kill him if he won’t talk,” Elio says easily. “He’s only given his last name. Grice. He’s not even Italian.”

Elio’s serious about his Sicilian heritage, and that all his men should be from the homeland, at least genetically. Even though there are exceptions—like Ricardo, for example, and a few of our drivers.

My own father was full blooded Sicilian, but the only reason I know that is because he showed up at my foster family’s house once.

Threatened to kill them all, bragged about his heritage.

To this day, I don’t know if he was lying or not. But my skin is olive and my name is Italian, anyway, and that’s good enough for Elio.

“You’ve got an hour to interrogate him,” Elio says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I stand up and head for the exit, wanting to get this over with. I don’t relish in torture, even if I have to do it. “And Dante?”