Mafia Kings: Massimo: Dark Mafia Romance Series #3

We were headed for a little town called Treporti. It was small compared to Venice, but I figured it would have enough cars to choose from.

While Massimo dumped the body and cleaned up the blood, I concentrated on driving the boat –

And tried not to think about my grandmother.

I didn’t understand why, but our last conversation really bothered me.

Not the bossing me around or expecting me to obey Massimo part (which was not going to happen, by the way – fuck that noise).

I think it was the realization that…

That maybe it was the last time I would ever talk to her again.

(don’t think like that STOP it)

She’d already been attacked by assassins…

And if she didn’t think it was safe for me to come home… how dangerous was it for her, exactly?

(they might kill her next time they try)

(STOP it)

I kept flashing back to when I was six years old, sitting in the backseat of the car, right after the crash of metal and the tinkle of glass –

(STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT)

I pushed all of that out of my head.

We had more pressing problems at the moment –

Including what my dumbass bodyguard wanted to do.

“You’re really going to steal a car?” I asked as we walked down the dock where we’d moored the boat.

He smirked. “Does that offend you?”

The way he acted like he was a badass – and I was some little church mouse shocked by the big, strong mafioso – annoyed the fuck out of me.

“Uh, NO, idiot. After I snuck out the first few times, Nona had her thugs start locking our boats up – so the only option I had was to steal somebody else’s.”

“Then why did you sound so surprised?”

“I was surprised you knew how to steal a car. Unless you’re planning to carjack somebody.”

“No, I’m not going to carjack anybody,” he said, sounding like he was the one who was offended. “And I grew up in the Cosa Nostra. Of course I know how to steal a car.”

“I grew up in the Cosa Nostra, too, and I don’t know how to steal a car,” I pointed out.

“Because you grew up on an island without cars,” he said in a know-it-all voice.

Which annoyed me even more, because… okay, yeah, it was an obvious point.

“I’m just saying, just because you grew up in the mafia doesn’t mean you automatically know shit,” I retorted.

“But you know how to hotwire a boat, apparently.”

I scoffed. “Nobody has to hotwire a boat in Venice. Lots of people leave their fuckin’ keys in the ignition.”

He frowned. “Wait a second – have you even driven a car before?”

“No,” I said in a super-sweet voice laced with cyanide, “I grew up on an island without cars, remember?”

A brief flash of annoyance lit up his face, but otherwise he didn’t react to my tone of voice. “Not even on vacations?”

“What vacations? I lived almost my entire life with an old woman who doesn’t like the sun and was worried we’d get assassinated anywhere we went outside of Venice.”

“Oh.”

He sounded sad, like I’d just told him that I’d never had a pet.

Which was actually true, other than a couple of goldfish and a tiny turtle I’d named Henry (after the actor Henry Cavill, who I had a huge crush on when I was 12).

Nona hated animals. She said they left hair everywhere. Hence the turtle and goldfish.

I would have killed for a puppy growing up… or a kitten…

“If you never left Venice, have you ever ridden in a car before?” he asked.

It was a stupid question. Of course I’d ridden in a car – I wasn’t from some remote tribe in the Amazon.

But before I could answer, I flashed back to when I was six.

The sound of the crash –

The stillness afterwards –

The roar of the motorcycle pulling up next to us –

“Yes,” I said abruptly as I pushed the memory out of my head. “But… aren’t cars all electronic now? With alarm systems and computers and shit?”

“Some are,” he admitted.

“So, what – are you some kind of computer hacker/car thief?”

“I’ll be looking for something older. Something without any computers.”

That probably wouldn’t be too hard. Treporti was a small town and not rich. Most of the cars would be pretty old.

We walked past the shop selling tickets for the ferry to Venice, a convenience store, and a tourist trap with a display of polished sea shells. We got some weird looks from the locals, which I guess was to be expected. It wasn’t every day they saw a giant in a designer suit and a rich chick with a Birkin bag just out for a stroll.

We left the tiny town and kept going until we reached a long row of cars parked on the side of the road. I guess it was for people who wanted to stroll the pedestrian we were walking along, because there wasn’t a beach. Access to the water was blocked by a chain-link fence.

Massimo passed by car after car, studying each one.

I guess he found one he liked because he crossed the road and went over to an ugly blue car. The paint was faded off in patches and the doors were all dinged up. The thing must have been 40 year old – and not in a classic sports car good kind of way.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” I complained as I followed along behind him.

“Why?” he asked as he tried both the driver’s side doors. They were both locked.

“Can’t you get something nicer?”

“‘Nicer’ means ‘newer,’ and newer is harder to hotwire. Stand in front of me.”

“Why?”

“To cover me while I break the window.”

“There’s nobody around – ”

“Just do it.”

I sighed and got into place. Then I looked out at the water, which was only 40 feet away –

Until I heard a crunch and the tinkle of glass.

I flinched –

(I’m 6 years old and sitting in the back seat – broken glass is everywhere and pieces are all over me – )

(STOP STOP STOP)

– and whirled around nervously.

Massimo had a key chain in his hand, but there was a tiny pointed spike on the metal ring.

Next to him, the car window was completely devoid of glass.

“What’s that?!” I asked, shocked.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“Tools of the trade,” he said as he unlocked the car from the inside. “A single point can break car glass with almost no effort at all. Go around.”

I went around the car as he brushed the broken glass off the seat onto the ground, got in, and adjusted the driver’s seat.

Even with it back as far as it would go, his legs were crammed up next to the wheel. He looked like a regular-sized person in a clown car.

He leaned over and unlocked the passenger door so I could get in. Then he took out the knife he’d pulled off the mercenary’s body and used it to pop off a plastic compartment under the steering wheel.

He fiddled with some wires – and ten seconds later, the engine roared to life.

Well, ‘roared’ is a bit strong.

More like ‘coughed and wheezed to life.’

He looked over at me, oh so pleased with himself – like I told you so.

“Wow,” I said in a flat voice. “Great. You stole a piece of shit on wheels. Congratulations.”

He glowered at me, backed the car out, and we started down the road.