Page 15 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Leave it,” my father mutters, not even glancing back. He’s walking faster now, eager to get on with his day, satisfied that the deal’s been struck and his pockets are heavier.
But I don’t leave it.
I turn on my heel and retrace my steps. This time, I raise the scarf high enough for the wind to carry it exactly where I need it, right behind Emo’s gleaming Ferrari.
My heart thuds in my chest, but my hands are steady as I pull thesmall blade from my clutch and wrap it in pink. One last glance over my shoulder to ensure no eyes are on me, and I strike.
They think there will be no consequences.
They think I’ll just take it.
The blade cuts deep as I carve the filthiest, most obscene, spur-of-the-moment phrase into the Ferrari’s flawless yellow paint.
CHAPTER TWO
RENZO
“How doyou feel about your recent flirt with death?”
My new therapist doesn’t beat around the bush. Problem is I’m a Beneventi. Emotions are prey, and vulnerability the blood our enemies feed from.
“Flirting comes naturally.” I cross an ankle over a knee, recline in the expensive chair, and gesture toward her desk. “Says so in one of those files.”
I live by the three Ds: dodge, distract, and delay. But a fourth D, never part of the equation, landed me here—dying.
I fucked up, but survived.
But my father’s patience is worn out.
The shrink’s office is lush. Signed artwork on the walls. Harvard degree prominently displayed behind her desk. My father’s taken a new approach this time; this one’s less drill sergeant and more spank-bank material. The confident gleam in her eyes says she believes she’ll succeed where others have failed.
Not understanding we Beneventi come with ashutoff valve. Charming mafiosi one minute and hacking men apart with chain saws the next.
No amount of psychobabble can penetrate that. Or what it takes to thrive in the Life.
“You don’t want to be here.”
Bing-fucking-go. “What makes you say that?”
Her sigh sounds like an eye roll. “The emergency response report says oxygen had to be administered.”
Finally, something we can talk about, even if she doesn’t get the answers she wants.
“I was hanging from a Saint Andrew’s cross. Do you understand how much effort that took?”
She stares at me like she’s trying to read my soul.
I smirk. “Closest I’ve come to a religious experience.”
“You agreed to therapy.”
“My father’s persuasive.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t want it.”
“Sure you can. Depends on your definition of helpful.”
She cocks her head. “What do you mean?”
