Page 14 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I’ve been gathering cash for years, pocketing loose change,stealing what I could, selling what I could. His Rolex, cuff links, even the hubcaps off his Mercedes. But it’s pennies in a piggy bank when I need a Swiss bank vault.
It’s enough to vanish, but not to stay gone.
And if I’m caught, that’s it—I’ll vanish for good.
I stand, tucking my scarf inside my bag and setting it on the vanity before washing my hands and dousing my face with water. I’m ready to return to Los Angeles and enjoy what’s left of my time there. Gathering my stuff, I take a second to smooth the lace on my pink dress, and then unlock the door.
A blow slams into my chest. I stumble back into the bathroom.
Emo shuts the door behind him, a cigarette hanging from his lips, the ember glowing like a warning. His lips are pulled tight around it, his pupils pinpricks.
“I was just finishing up.”
“And I’m just starting.”
He lunges, fingers locking around my throat, shoving me against the wall. His grip is iron, bruising. My pulse hammers under his hand. “I thought I’d give you a taste of what you can look forward to,” he purrs.
The punch to my gut is fast and merciless. Air leaves my lungs as my knees buckle. I fold in on myself, arms clutched to my middle.
He yanks me back up by my hair.
I force back my terror in favor of calm. “Carlo will notice we’re gone.”
He exhales a plume of smoke into my face.
I cough, eyes watering, but still meet his stare while my mind races how to escape the psycho.
Abruptly, he cups a cheek, and I don’t dare move. “Not even a whimper. I like that. Make one now, and your face will be next.”
It’s all the warning I get.
He seizes my wrist, pinning it high above me, then presses the cigarette’s tip into the tender flesh on the inside of my wrist. Heat sears my skin, and I bite my lip until it splits.
Closely, he watches me, waiting for me to break.
A pounding on the door interrupts him, and saves me.
“Not a word,” he threatens, releasing me.
He pulls open the door and charges by Carlo’s man.
I quickly gather my things and follow the man to the elevator. Wordlessly step beside my father, descend, and spill out onto the frigid sidewalk. We walk in the direction we came from.
Each step sends a spike of pain through my midsection, but my father doesn’t notice. He doesn’t care. His silence cuts deep, worse than a punch to the stomach or cigarette burn.
No one will stop the marriage. No one will spare me from what comes next. I’m a mafia princess, property to be sold, used, and discarded. A pretty token passed between men like currency. It’s a world without consequences, with actions like the real-life horror show in the bathroom minutes earlier par for the course.
For too long, I hoped someone would step in. That God might intercede.
I’m done hoping and praying.
If no one’s coming to save me, I’ll save myself.
But first, I have unfinished business.
A fresh gust kicks up as we turn the corner, and I reach for my scarf. Like a magician, I pluck it from my purse. The cashmere billows then catches the wind like a bird sprung from its cage. I release the material, then watch it soar behind us and back toward where we came from.
“Drat,” I say, my voice thin with mock frustration. “My scarf.”
