Page 75 of Dirty Mafia Torment
God, I’m sorry, okay? I had no choice.
If you want to damn someone, damn Renzo.
And that strawberry for sparking my temper.
How dare he play with me like nothing happened. How dare he walk into my restaurant, eat the food my great-aunt made with love, and toss out questions about some blonde who doesn’t exist.
It’s my day off. I should be anywhere but here, trailing him through Rome’s most iconic spots like some obsessed tourist.
But here I am. Trailing after a man I never truly knew. Craving answers and revenge, yet too disgusted to actually confront him and his excuses.
He’s led me on an aimless tour of Rome, ducking in and out of shops and trattorias, slipping through crowds near the Colosseum, weaving through ancient ruins like a man with no clear destination.
I follow, always steps behind.
We stopped for espresso, gelato, and a Supplì stuffed with mozzarella—where, each time, I mirror his order, then relish each treat. We visited the Forum, the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain. I almost lost him at the Spanish Steps when a few flirty locals distracted me with whistles and bold compliments.
The lack of logic in the path he’s carving through Rome is astounding. No pattern to his madness. Yet much to my annoyance, with each passing hour my curiosity grows.
We end up at the Santa Maria della Vittoria, and I discover him at the foot of Bernini’s sculpture,Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. Quietly, I creep forward, partially concealed by the sheer scarf around my neck and a few other visitors.
I study him as he regards the statue, and note the changes in him. Gone is the fragile frame and in its place muscles. Massive, mouthwatering muscles, the kind you want to squeeze to test if they’re real. His hollow cheeks are now filled in, and there’s a healthy glow to his skin. My eyes rake over him, head to toe. He looks very different from the last time I saw him in LA.
What’s the same is his dangerously erotic vibe.
He’s staring at the nun like he understands her. The reverence and ruin. Bliss sharpened by a raw ache.
I stare at him, trying to understand him.A hopeless task, isn’t it?I think.
He should be up there instead of Saint Teresa. Shirt unbuttoned,chest bronzed and glimmering in the soft cathedral light, his expression echoing the statue’s aching hunger.
Admired but never to be touched.
It hurts to look too long at him, and I want to touch him. Slap him again. Grab him by the collar and shout, “What happened? Why disappoint me like that?”
So many unanswered questions. Did he follow me to Rome? Did he leave that damn strawberry as some twisted joke?
I drag my eyes away.
Fuck you, Renzo Beneventi.
Comforted by a familiar rage, I force myself to look away, anywhere but at him.
Then God reminds me my penance isn’t over, and I spot the artist’s name beneath the statue.
GianLorenzoBernini.
Of course the asshole’s named for an artist who immortalized agony and ecstasy, something this man practically bleeds.
I tell myself to walk away. Leave him to his aimless wandering, let him disappear into the city just like he vanished when I needed him most.
But I don’t. Pathetic as can be, I trail behind him as we exit the basilica.
RENZO
She hasn’t changed.
I was wondering if she’d take the bait and confront me about that fucking berry, among other things.
