Page 101 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Then he disappears into the crowd like smoke.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
My hand goes for my gun.
He could be no one. Black is fashionable in Rome.
But my gut knows better. I’ve been around wolves my entire life. You don’t grow up as Matteo Lombardi’s sacrificial lamb without learning how to spot a predator.
And you sure as hell don’t ignore one.
I call an Uber to take me the few blocks back to the restaurant just to be safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FINA
“Are dicks supposed to be pretty?”
Bianca and Camilla freeze like I just asked if pasta counts as a vegetable. We’re knee-deep in decluttering Aunt Teresa’s apartment, in the lull between the lunch and dinner, and I decide now’s the time for a deep analysis of male anatomy?
Because obviously, nothing says productivity like chatting about pretty dicks while sorting lace doilies.
Bianca gives me a look that’s equal parts amused and knowing.
Camilla drops a box of chafing dishes with a clatter. “Whose dick?” she blurts, eyes wide.
Our resident connoisseur smirks. “Handsome face, handsome dick. But if he’s got yacht-sized feet? Game over.”
We burst into the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt and your cheeks ache. Though seriously, if I hear about Dante’s big dick one more time, I’ll never be able to make eye contact without losing it.
“Fina.” Camilla elbows me like we’re twelve. “Spill. Whose dick?”
“It was just a general question,” I lie, unconvincingly.
Camilla narrows her eyes. “It’s him, isn’t it? Dante’s associate?”
Damn. My mouth really needs a better filter. “Who?”
“The guy you doused in booze and slapped like he insulted Zia Teresa’s lasagna? The hot mafioso you ghosted last time he came to the restaurant?”
I fight the urge to groan. “I’m asking because I saw one online.”
Camilla gasps. “You saw … a pretty dick?”
“Porn?” Bianca’s eyes gleam. “Love this for you.”
I exhale. Crisis averted. Sort of.
Bianca pumps her fist in the air like she’s courtside at a basketball game. “If she’s into hung porn stars, I say cheers.”
“I wasn’t judging,” Camilla insists, a bit breathless. “I was processing.”
I get it. I really do. Especially since I’ve been mentally replaying Renzo’s shower scene like it’s my favorite guilty pleasure. Water sliding down every sharp line of muscle. His head tilted back as he strokes himself.
That dick is a dangerous weapon. And so is the man attached to it. A fighter. A charmer. A walking, talking bad idea wrapped up with temptation.
I already had a taste—a messy, deliciously wild dip into insanity—when he rid me of my virginity. It was a mind-blowing experience, one I’ve forced into lockdown and shoved deep into the back of my mind because what followed made the memory too painful to revisit.
