Page 21 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Wearing expensive black tuxedo pants and a crisp white silk shirt indecently unbuttoned from neck to waist, he has both feet up on the confessional window while he lounges in the priest’s seat. I smell the sweet, pungent joint before I spy it dangling from his fingertips.
So many words take form. So many questions I’d like to unleash on him. Why didn’t you return my calls? You’re getting high in God’s house? Will you pretend you didn’t witness my crime?
Life’s a game to him.
I was simply a distraction. Something that caught his attention until it faded.
Two words that have weighed heavily on my heart tumble out. “You promised.”
Pain registers across his expression.
I relish it. Yeah, feel that? Yet it’s hard not to notice how his high cheekbones are more pronounced and that he’s obviously lost weight. What has he done to himself?
No. Stop it. Loathing is a much more rational reaction than worry.
I snatch up the last envelope, then scramble to my feet, hauling my purse over my shoulder and disappearing out the emergency door, just like he disappeared on me months ago.
“Fina,” I hear him call out.
But I’m already gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
FINA
One Year Ago
I twirlthe keys to my father’s ’66 Mustang convertible around my finger, the gleam of chrome catching the dim light. His most prized possession is now mine for the weekend. While he’s away and his men are on break, I can do as I want.
And what I want is to go for a ride.
The idea has obsessed me for weeks. My taking control of the thing he worships most; his precious car at my complete mercy.
He’ll never know. YouTube taught me more than enough to cover my ass, like how to roll back the odometer and erase my tracks, as if I never touched his car.
Sometimes I toy with darker urges.
Sometimes I give into them—little things, mostly. Petty sabotage. I’ve watered down his booze, added salt to his dinner when he’s not looking, and subtly rearranged his desk. I know the passwords to his computer, phone, and the safe inside his bedroom closet. Deletingmessages and changing names within his contacts, leaking his gambling debts to the other capos, skimming small amounts of cash—a little here, a little there … The list goes on. Messing with the security cameras is my favorite pastime; it drives him into hysterics when they glitch or record random images of the sky. I know every angle and every blind spot, and work them to my advantage.
Today, the urge is darker than usual. A filthy word carved into his custom leather seats, sharp, cruel, worthy of him?
But the voice of reason prevails. Resist the temptation, Fina. Take the ride. Keep the illusion. You’re a mafia princess and the picture-perfect example of obedience. A woman the famiglie can point to and say, “Her father’s a fucking financial disgrace, but look at his daughter and how perfectly she carries his debts.”
I climb inside and slam the door behind me, rattling the hinges. I flip the security camera the Italian salute as I start the engine, smirking at the thought of how all my father will ever see is the loop I set, with his beloved Mustang sitting untouched in the garage and the driveway outside frozen in its empty stillness.
With a hard foot on the accelerator, I back the Mustang out of the garage like a bat out of hell, engine roaring and rubber shrieking against concrete, an adrenaline rush flooding my veins.
Until I nearly plow into a man on the sidewalk.
I slam my foot on the brake, tires screaming, the car jerking to a halt just inches from him.
“What the hell?” I snap.
The fool barely flinches, hands shoved in his pockets, completely unruffled, like near-death experiences are par for the course.
I climb out, teeth clenched. “I almost killed you.”
“Then the cross-country invite would have been pointless,” he replies, peeling off his baseball cap and raking fingers through his dark hair.
