Page 65 of Dirty Mafia Torment
She reaches into the pocket of her flour-dusted apron, pulls out a small black object, and slides it across the table.
My jaw drops.
A gun, tucked in next to her wooden spoon and fresh oregano like it belongs there.
“Take my advice…” she says, as calm as she is wise. “…and this.” Like she’s handing me a biscotto and not a firearm.
But at this point, I probably shouldn’t be surprised.
This is Aunt Teresa, after all.
She pats my hand like a sweet grandmother and turns back to her pasta, humming softly as if she didn’t just arm me at the kitchen table.
Just before the rolling pin hits the dough, she adds, almost as an afterthought:
“A woman in this world can never be too cautious.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
FINA
“You look like a goddess,”Camilla says, eyes wide with a mix of admiration and too much limoncello.
We’re squeezed into the back of a taxi, limbs tangled and bodies slick with summer sweat, in tight dresses, towering heels, fake lashes, bold war paint, and wigs that whisperdare me.
My blonde wig spills over my bare back, sexy and sensual. Less goddess and more bombshell about to make questionable choices.
Camilla’s edgy blue bob frames her sharp cheekbones like it was made for her. Bianca’s wild red curls make her eyes glow. We’re a three-alarm fire, and impossible to ignore.
I thank God for saving me, but I’m not cut out to be a nun.
When Bianca suggested dress-up, I embraced the idea. I can steal into the night, laugh loud, dance hard, live like I never almost lost it all, incognito.
Bianca’s apartment is a short distance from Dante’s club, but we cab it the few blocks. We can’t let Camilla loose on the streets instilettos, not with her tottering like a baby giraffe on cobblestone. We’re ready to conquer Rome, not eat asphalt.
The club is alive and bouncing with an electric energy as we’re ushered in.
Our first stop is the bar, where we order more limoncello shots. “One, two, three,” we chant, and then—very American-style—slam our shot glasses upside down on the bar. Earning everyone’s attention.
“Now we dance,” Camilla proclaims, linking arms with us. We storm the dance floor like we’re tonight’s main event. And soon, I’m laughing and dancing like a fool, the strobe lights sweeping away fear, pain, and sorrow, pulverizing my heartaches into tiny colorful particles of light, then casting it into the stratosphere.
This is the life I dreamed about.
This is the joy I deserve.
Techno-pop has the dance floor vibrating, and a sea of moving bodies surrounds me. I’ve always been a good dancer, and tonight, I feel it, bumping, fist-pumping, alive. So alive.
An arm snakes around my waist, and I’m pulled back. I step on his instep and break free, then glance over my shoulder and realize I’ve nothing to fear.
Okay. He’s hot. Strong jaw, a determined tilt to his lips.
He moves in again, and this time, I let him.
It feels nice, and I sway along with his movements.
We dance together for several songs until he goes in for a kiss.
I don’t know why I balk, turning my head at the last second before stepping away.
