Page 158 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Without my father demanding I be here?” No one knows I set up this appointment or the ones after it. The reason for the secrecy isn’t because I’m worried about the same old whispers: Wild. Unreliable.Weak.
Trust me, that dying dog’s been laid to rest. Oh, the fucking rumors still circulate, except now they don’t bother me, now that they’ve got it right for once.
He’s the most deadly Beneventi of them all.
But discussing mafiosi gossip, violence, or the Life isn’t why I’m here.
The therapist crosses her legs, cheeks heating. “How can I help you?”
Sex isn’t why I’m here, either.
“I’m in love.”
“In love?”
The lollipop sours in my mouth. Not because what I shared is a lie. Because I blew it. I toss the lollipop into the bin. “You heard me.”
“Well, okay …”
“She’s part of the reason I’m here.”
Fina found out about my father’s wife, my almost-fiancée. How I handed out marriage proposals like candy—just as stale, because the motive wasn’t love. It was stupidity mixed with misplaced kindness, wrapped up in some fucked-up hero complex I’ve carried for years. I still carry it. What I unleashed on Emo proves that. The one time I actually was sincere about marrying wasn’t a proposal at all, but a declaration.
An epiphany.
Fina is my girl. The woman I’ll spend the rest of my life with.
But first things first.
Yeah, I’ll always carry the monster within, and I fucking embrace him. He’s my strength. He wins wars. Keeps the Beneventi name feared.
I’m here for the demon. He doesn’t respect family or himself. He’s pure hunger and chaos, and if I let him off the chain, he’ll destroy everything I love.
The monster builds empires.
The demon burns them to the ground.
“I’m an addict,” I say bluntly.
The therapist opens a file and picks up a pen.
“I’m here because I want to stay sober.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
FINA
I squeezetomatoes over a bowl and scold myself for thinking of him. If we’re talking broken promises, I’m shattering the one I made to myself.
Camilla presses a wet kitchen towel into my hands. “Those tomatoes never stood a chance.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, the sound hollow even to me. “Happens to the best of us.”
“Well, put the sauce aside. Bianca’s about to perform.”
I quickly scrub my hands clean because I cannot miss the thing that’s become the pulse of our Saturday nights. Word spread through the neighborhood faster than cannoli cream spilling from a pastry and forced Aunt Teresa into accepting dinner reservations due to the bump in business.
Maracas in one hand, dishes in the other, Camilla and I sprint onto the floor. My smile is automatic as I serve the men at one table. I’ll never tire of their flirting and compliments.
