Page 57 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I shove my handbag under my arm, narrow my eyes, and brace myself.
One.
Two.
Three.
I bolt off the porch, making a wide arc away from the beast as I sprint toward my great-aunt’s fading silhouette down the drive.
He’s on me. Wings flapping, claws scraping gravel, head lowered in attack.
Farm life has taught me a few things: Always shut your windows or prepare to wake with the early morning revellers. And always carry a weapon, stick, rock, or food, anything will do.
I wind up like a pitcher and hurl the husks at him. One clips his wing, breaking his momentum. He squawks, feathers flying, then drops to the ground and begins pecking at the prize.
I slow just enough to catch my breath, then see the bus. Aunt Teresa is already stepping aboard.
“Wait!” I yell. “Aspettare! Non andartene!”
Not wanting to disappoint her or miss work, I take off running.
The restaurant’salive with noise and movement, and I’m right in the middle of it and thriving.
“Posso prendere il tuo ordine?” I ask the three men just seated in my section.
“I’ll have the American,” one says with a smirk.
“With a side of beautiful,” the second adds, tossing in a wink.
“And your number,” the third finishes, grinning like he just won the SuperEnalotto, Italy’s largest lottery.
Flirting is second nature to Italian men—an art form, really—and I can’t say I mind.
I don’t love attention, not when I’ve spent months trying to shrinkinto myself, but Rome is loud, sprawling, and teeming with Americans. I blend in enough to feel safe.
With a smile, I repeat their orders. “One cheeseburger,” I write on my pad. “With a side of beautifully hand-cut fries.” I pause and offer them a smirk. “And a big, fat, American-style tip.”
“And your number?”
I flip the pad, scribble my response on a clean sheet, fold the paper, and toss it onto the table. “I’ll bring three glasses of water while you men decide.” Hips swaying, I saunter off toward the kitchen as they whistle in appreciation.
Camilla and Bianca are waiting for me. “Quegli uomini sono dei veri playboy,” Camilla says.
“Manwhores, not playboys,” Bianca corrects her. “Did you really give him your number?”
“I gave him a lucky number, but not my phone number.” I grin. “I wrote Lucky 1. Hey, it’s how I feel, like I’m the lucky one.”
Truth.
Their laughter fills the kitchen. “They’ll never leave you in peace now,” Bianca says.
I shrug. If a bit of flirtation helps Aunt Teresa’s profit margin, what’s the harm?
“È una bella serata, no?” I say.
“Yes, Fina,” they agree. “It’s a great night.”
Is it risky to go by Fina? Absolutely. But Fina is me—raw, unfiltered, untamed. Elia is the name my father picked, the one everyone else uses, the one that keeps me chained to his rules. Only my mother and my closest friends call me Fina because they see the part of me that won’t be broken, the part that would rather burn the Life down than bow to it.
