Page 127 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Huh.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“You don’t know.”
I huff. “I just told you. He died from an allergic reaction.”
“And you split town, with no fiancé to worry about.”
I draw in a deep breath. “I planned on disappearing anyway. It’s why I took your father’s money.”
There. End of discussion. If he has a sympathetic nerve in his body, he’ll drop it.
For a long time, the asshole simply stares at me.
Then he shrugs. “I’m not the only one with questions for my brother.”
The casita isthe size of a New York City apartment and decorated with the same luxury details as the villa.
Riley’s been kind and sweet. Why she’s in a relationship with the A-hole is beyond me. I adjust my breasts within the skimpy white bikini she’s let me borrow, feeling more like myself after a solid night’s sleep and the distance I’ve placed between me and Rome.
I make the king-size bed and straighten up, curious at Renzo’s absence since I slept alone last night. But as I catch my reflection in the bedroom mirror, the answer’s obvious. I look like Quasimodo and the bride of Frankenstein had a child.
Bruises will fade, and the scabs show healing. The emotional scars are what will take longer, especially with Emo still out there.
The heat has kicked up even in the early morning. Dipping my legs in the pool sounds like a good idea. I head to the open-space living room and, once more, stop to admire the furnishings. Off in the corner is the only out-of-place piece, a small picnic table with only one bench with a cushioned leather top pitched at a forty-five degree angle. Metal hooks have been fixed into the sides, and as I examine it more closely, I notice two leather straps casually dangling from parallel ends.
Is that what I think it is?
I cover my mouth with a giggle and whip out my phone, pulling up pictures of spanking benches. I skim through them until I find a near match.
I bite my lip, barely holding back a grin. Of course Sandro’s into kink. Renzo is sex on legs, and they share DNA. But poor Riley, because it’s definitely not Sandro who ends up facedown and tied up.
Still grinning, I glance around, then tiptoe to the bench like I’m sneaking candy before dinner. I flatten my stomach across the leather top and wriggle into position until it feels just right. I shift, settle, testing how my body fits. My lips part in a silent gasp.
I nibble the corner of my mouth. What would it be like to be strapped down like this, bare skin to cool leather, every breath spent waiting for his touch? My pulse quickens. My imagination takes over, bold and shameless.
A shiver curls up my spine, delicious and slow.
Yeah. I’m definitely feeling better.
I rise from the bench, smooth a hand over the leather one last time, then wander toward a massive painting dominating one wall. At first glance, it’s just wild brushstrokes. But as I lean in, I noticethe outline of tangled limbs. Bodies. Writhing. Intertwined. Lost in one endless, chaotic orgy.
I bite back another laugh. My cheeks flush, my thoughts even filthier.
Lord, I’m intrigued.
What else is hiding in this wicked little casita?
My gaze lands on an enormous armoire, oversized and elegant, better suited to a bedroom than a living space. It calls to me. I’ve always been curious by nature and not particularly good at respecting boundaries. Years under my father’s rule taught me how to survive, not how to play nice.
Grinning, I grab the ornate handles and swing the heavy wood doors open.
My jaw drops.
Good Lord.
It’s a sex toy chest. Not just toys. An entire wonderland. Every item is high quality and gleaming with promise. My pulse kicks harder as I scan the contents. Satin blindfolds. Candles, some half-melted. Butt plugs. Rope, soft and strong, perfect for shibari. Latex restraints. Leather cuffs. Hard metal cuffs. Adjustable straps. Vibrators of all sizes and shapes. Nipple clamps. Ball gags. Feathers. Floggers, so many floggers—long, short, suede, leather. Paddles. Belts.
