Page 100 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I stare at the running water before turning the faucet off. “Not important.”
Her sigh fills the room, then I hear her shuffling about, organizing pots and pans that don’t need organizing. “You’re stronger than you think,” she blurts, the encouraging words spilling out before she can stop them.
“Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”
“I live by those words.”
That catches my attention. I turn, narrowing my eyes on her.
Her hair brushes her shoulders as she shrugs, backpedaling like she’s said too much.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I don’t tell her the problem isn’t whether I think I’m strong.
It’s about managing the egos of the men around me, all while trying to stop a goddamn war with the Cosa Nostra.
All while proving to every last one of them—my father, Dante, Massimo, Fina—that I’m the kind of motherfucker you sit back and take notice of.
FINA
I go about my day,desperate to shake the image seared into my brain. Squeezing my eyes shut only makes it worse. Renzo in the shower, stroking the thick length of his gorgeous cock, the flushed tip a sinful shade of pink. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
That wicked man deserves to be immortalized, bare-assed for the world to worship. An Italian sculptor should carve him in marble—cock, smirk, and all—preserving every shameless detail. His head tipped back as water cascades over his chest, that taunting wiggle of his ass, the slow glide of his hands like he’sperforming for me alone. A scandalous exhibition of a scandalous man, and every one of my dirtiest fantasies brought to life in real time.
A man clears his throat.
My eyes flash open.
“Questo non è il mio ordine per il pranzo,” the gentleman at my table comments, jarring me back to the present.
I bite my lip. I placed the wrong lunch plate on his table.
“Scusa,” I offer, then take the plate to the correct table.
Lord, I’m a hot mess.
Inside the kitchen, Aunt Teresa’s already on me. “Did you sleep enough, Fina? The farm is quiet at night, especially when you’re alone?”
“No,” I reply too fast. “I slept fine. Must be my hormones messing with me.”
She wipes her hand on her apron. “Fresh air will do you good. The market is open in the square, and I’ve a shopping list. Would you be helpful and pick up what I need?”
“Of course.” It’s a gorgeous day. A walk will clear my head.
Rome has big-city energy mixed with small-town charm. In California, you’d sit an hour in traffic while driving to a bougie farmers market, where tables with fresh vegetables are nestled against trendy IV stations.
Los Angeles’s farm-to-table trend has nothing on Italy’s open-air markets. The food here hits different, less chemical-tasting, more salt-of-the-earth.
Basket swinging on my arm, I stroll through the market, ticking off my prozia’s list, sampling as I go. A bite of fresh mozzarella, a sip of espresso handed over with a wink. Basil, rosemary, and grilled bread perfume the air. My senses are soon as full as my stomach, yet I feel lighter.
I’m at the last vendor when it happens. I swing my basket too hard, and a tomato leaps free. I stoop to retrieve it, laughing under my breath, until something shifts.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man dressed head-to-toe in black.
He’s standing too still.
Watching too closely.
