Page 107 of Dirty Mafia Torment
She takes a bite of gnocchi smothered in a lemon butter sauce and closes her eyes as she chews, relishing the pasta-dumpling dish like it’s a religious experience.
I’m instantly hard, the sight of her beautiful, reverent expression igniting something feral in me. I want to be the one who places it there, time and time again while I worship her body like the devil I am.
“You told me as much on the ride to Vegas,” she says between chews. “How a brain like yours doesn’t handle boredom well. So, I … um … looked into it.”
Of courseshe did.
I pretend to be disturbed. “Fucking obsessed, aren’t you?”
Yet calling her out this time hits different. I fucking love the balls on her.
She shrugs her shoulders, blowing off my accusation. Too caught up in the deep dive into my brain.
I wonder if I should warn her?
“People like you crave stimulation. You need to feel things. Test limits. Push boundaries. That’s what gets you off.”
I smirk. “Know what really gets me off…”
Jesus. I’ve avoided this psychobabble for years. I’m about physicalities. Filthy sex and bruised knuckles. A thick dick, a pair of cuffs, and the right woman on her knees. Deep internal reflection nevercrosses my mind. And when pressed, I typically deflect by doing something outrageous.
Which is why I’m humoring her and not shutting this shit down. Waiting for the perfect moment to act.
Bad decision, because she hacks through my bullshit with a goddamn machete. “Your father understands this.”
Fuck, she’s perceptive.
“My father?” I demand, irritated. She best be careful peeling back this onion because, surprise, surprise, what’s on the inside also stinks.
“Why else would he allow you such freedom? Cover for your fights, the women, kink club escapades, run-ins with cops, pissed-off boyfriends…” Her fingers roll lazily through the air like she’s listing steps in a recipe. Part chef. Part fucking stalker. “He turned a blind eye to substance abuse, too…”
Part boxer, because her jab is flawless. In my head, I finish the thought for her.
Until he couldn’t.
I drag a hand down my face, annoyance sparking hard and fast. She recites my history like it’s common knowledge, like she’s memorized every fuckup and filed it away for moments like this. What pisses me off even more is how accurate she is with her sad portrayal of me.
“The condition is called dysrationalia,” she plows on, relentless and unmerciful. “People doing irrational things despite having a high intellect. Normal bores people like you, so you take things to extremes to challenge yourself.”
“Jesus Christ …”
“Rules mean nothing to someone like you,” she declares as my discomfort grows. “Not when you think you’re smarter than everyone else. My father would’ve crushed your spirit. Forced the Life down your throat and watched you choke on it. Yours? He waited. Gave you time to figure out the truth.”
Every syllable digs under my ribs, wedges itself where I can’tyank it out. I turn away, jaw clenched, trying to steady the rising panic. She’s not wrong, and that makes it worse.
I spent years pushing back, sure, but things only spiraled after Rome. That’s when the rebellion turned toxic, driven by this desperate urge to become exactly what everyone already believed I was.
A good time.
Unreliable.
Weak.
The realization slams into me. My lips part, then press into a tight line. I shake my head, unsettled by the weight of it. Fuck. I never saw it this clearly until now.
Our eyes lock. Her soft smile says everything—she knows she hit the motherfucking bullseye.
Her voice dips low, velvet and lethal.
