Page 22 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I freeze. Recognition strikes me like a punch.
Renzo.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see him.
A week ago, I made a bold, calculated move: I texted him, inviting him to LA, out of the blue and so sudden, he’s probably wondering how I even got his number. He turned me down once, back when I didn’t know my own worth. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and with my father out of town, it felt like the perfect moment to lure him here.
I used what I know about his lifestyle to my advantage, promising him a good time and attaching a naked photo of me bound in playful shibari. My friend and I laughed while she worked the cotton rope around me and as I posed for pictures.
I never told anyone what happened four years ago. But I relived that moment, fantasized about it in vivid detail—even extensively researching bondage and rope playing—so I could fuel the memory, the fantasy, more fully. Cotton rope against my skin. His warm fingertips brushing my breast. That deliciously dangerous gleam in his eyes, suggesting I’m in deep, deep trouble. That there are things he can show me, filthy, dirty things I don’t even know I crave yet.
It’s as vivid as if it happened yesterday.
Did I think my invitation would work? Not really.
But here he is. And holy shit, he’s so much more than I remember.
Inky curls, tousled and defiant, frame his rugged face. A shadow of stubble sharpens the line of his jaw. A black leather vest clings to his muscled torso, left open to reveal a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath faded, low-slung jeans. Flip-flops are the only nod to the West Coast. Part surfer. Part biker. And judging by the smirk on his lips, a total stud.
I underestimated how commanding a presence he has in person.
He sets the cap on his head and strolls up to the car. “We going somewhere?” he asks in a husky, lazy tone.
Like to my bedroom?
Like to a Hollywood sex club where he can do wicked things to my body?
He rakes his eyes over me like he’s comparing the naughty girl inthe photo to today’s version. I’m wearing a jeans miniskirt, tight crop top, flip-flops, moody silk underwear, and a ridiculously expensive pearl necklace I purchased with my father’s credit card. I wear it like a banner, a small victory in the war between his greed and my fight to survive.
“I’m surprised you came.”
“Trust me,” he replies. “So am I.”
Okay. So maybe the pic didn’t make him hard for weeks. “Still, you’re here.”
He skims his eyes over me like he expected bubble gum and Barbie dolls, and found a rare vintage wine. Okay, so I definitely captured his attention.
He tosses a black duffel bag next to my purse in the backseat, then hops over the door, into the passenger seat. “I’m yours for the next few days.”
Pure filth fills my mind. Get a grip, Fina. He doesn’t mean sex.
He smirks.
Or does he?
He nods toward the mansion on the hill. “Where’s your father?”
“Chicago.”
His eyes rest on me, yet he doesn’t say anything. I mean, what can he say?
“The cameras are glitching again,” I reassure him. “No one will know you’re here or that we’ve left together.”
His lips curl. “Glitching, huh?”
I raise a shoulder.
Then, we take off.
