Page 67 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Camilla walks to the railing and peers down at the crowd. “I don’t see Bianca. Or Dante.” She sighs. “Probably off in some back office with Bianca’s replacement. No wonder she’s spiraling.”
Laughter bursts from a group of women gathered around one of the large velvet sofas. The sound reminds me why I came. I’m about to tell Camilla we should head back to the dance floor, where Bianca’s more likely to find us, when the women shift places.
And I see him.
Laid out like a king in ruin.
Suit jacket’s balled beneath his head in a makeshift pillow. White dress shirt unbuttoned down to his navel. Chest rising and falling in slow, heavy rhythm. Eyes closed. Out cold.
Wasted.
A woman moves, exposing an open whiskey bottle on the table within his reach.
“God,” Camilla mutters under her breath. “Him again.”
No freaking way. How can this be?
Rage simmers just beneath the surface, boiling up like lava poking at a crack. “You know him?”
“He was at the restaurant a few weeks ago with Dante.” Camilla offers a casual shrug. “Looked about the same. Like death warmed over.” She even smiles. “He’s quite the character.”
A woman leans down and gives him a shake. Nothing. He doesn’t stir. He’s lights out, lost in whatever black hole he’s crawled back into.
And all at once, the memories crash in?—
Him swaying on unsteady feet.
Him chanting my name, like that’d make everything better.
Fina. Fina. Fina.
His lame excuses. My disappointment.
Take care of me? How could he when he can’t even take care of himself?
I charge forward, push through the women, storm straight at him, and snatch the bottle.
Behind me, Camilla shrieks, “Fina, no—don’t?—”
But it’s too late.
I empty the contents over his head, dousing him.
He jerks awake, coughing, sputtering, gasping for air.
I drop the bottle, and then slap him. The crack of my palm echoes like gunfire.
His head snaps to the side. He blinks, whiskey streaming from his lashes, dazed but not totally defenseless. And much quicker than I expect, he grabs my wrist, tight and fast.
“What the hell?” His voice is rough and groggy.
“Fuck you, Renzo, you promise-wrecker. No, fuck you twice—all the way back to Rhode Island. You don’t get to ruin my new beginning. Go be reckless somewhere else.”
He shakes his head and blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision.
I don’t regret what I’ve done, not in the slightest. He’s worse than I remember, a mess of drugs and liquor and women who don’t know any better.
I didn’t either.
