Page 63 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Conscience flickers out.
All that’s left is the rush.
His anger gets the better of him. “You’re a coward who can’t even show his face.”
I smirk, then rip off my hood.
He blinks, then blinks again. “Alessandro Beneventi.”
“Close.”
His eyes widen. And then he laughs. “Lorenzo Beneventi?”
“Correct.” I pause. “Anything you’d like to say to Dante?”
“Fuck you, you pussy. Everyone saw you freeze. Everyone whispers about what a weak bastard you are.” He tilts his head so the blade presses deeper. “What, was your brother not available?”
“Everyone’s whispering, huh?”
I drag the blade across his throat, deep enough to make him gurgle, to paint the sheets in red. Not deep enough to end it. Not yet.
“Since you’re my first,” I murmur, “the one who earns me my place … it’s only right you hear the truth first.”
I carve a second line, clean and parallel, beneath the first. His blood pulses out, hot and frantic. His eyes widen, pure terror blooming behind them.
“I didn’t freeze,” I say.
Then I smile.
“I was savoring the motherfucking moment.”
I clamp my hand over his mouth and start sawing. Slow. Merciless. His body jerks. Blood spurts, coats my arms, soaks the mattress, slicks the floor.
I don’t stop until his head is severed clean.
And then—like a goddamn medieval warrior—I rise, grip his hair, and step off the bed, dripping in death. I stalk toward the camera and lift the head high.
“For Dante Lucchese,” I say coldly.
I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my hand, lean in close, and let my voice drop into a growl.
“Any more whispers about me being the weak Beneventi, and you’ll be next.”
FINA
“Fina.The peas are clean enough, don’t you think?” Aunt Teresa calls out from her perch on a stool at the kitchen island.
I glance down at the water sluicing over the freshly shucked peas in the colander. I’m helping her prep for tomorrow’s special, a simple pasta e piselli that her customers rave about.
Who knew I’d be the kind of girl who enjoys sorting a morningharvest in a sun-warmed kitchen? But here I am—hands busy, nails chipped, and somehow … at peace.
In LA, dinner comes in sleek packaging with calorie counts, impossible expiration dates, and macronutrient buzz words scribbled like warnings. It’s convenient. Soulless.
Here, everything’s different. You can taste the earth in the food, sunlight in the tomatoes, rain in the herbs, something wild and real in every bite. There’s no plastic packaging between you and your meal. Just time. Hands. Heart.
I shake off the water and return to the table.
My friends in Los Angeles would laugh at the sight of me at my prozia’s kitchen table. But, although I miss them and can’t correspond with them, I’ve no plans on returning. Which leads to the other problem at hand—how involved is Aunt Teresa in the famiglie in Rome?
