Page 125 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I called Aunt Teresa first thing. Her voice cracked when she heard mine. She said Dante’s men are watching the restaurant, guarding everyone affiliated or connected. I wanted to cry but instead warned her about Emo, gave her a description. She reassured me she’s safe under mafiosi protection.
Bianca and Camilla got the same warning. Camilla told me the guards are keeping an eye on them. Bianca laughed and clarified, “Eyes, mouths, and very busy hands.” I could almost see her wink.
After the calls, I washed up the best I could, then dressed in a loose pale blue linen dress from Riley’s wardrobe
The room Riley placed me in while the casita is being “straightened up” is drowning in white. White walls. White beams. White furniture. Even the rug is white, and I’ve been pacing the same invisible line into it with my bare feet for the last ten minutes.
But my mind keeps dragging me back.
The scream trapped in my throat as Settemo tried to force that catsuit over me.
The panic.
The pure fear.
And then, of all things, the rooster. My little feathered hero, flying at Emo’s face like a Fury from hell. I hope he clawed the bastard’s eyes out.
I’ll never throw a hay bale at him again.
Then came Renzo. Bursting from the barn like vengeance incarnate. Terrifying in his own right.
His rescue felt like a miracle.
But was it?
Because either he found some superhuman strength to break those manacles … or he had a key all along.
Ofcoursehe had a key.
So why didn’t he use it before?
I don’t know whether to sob or laugh, whether to punch him or pull him close and whisper thank you into his chest.
What does it matter how he broke free? I’m here now.
Emo can’t touch me in this place.
I glance at the door, wondering where Renzo’s gone. Dreading his all-consuming tenderness and missing it.
With a sigh, I go and search for him.
Sandro’s villa is spectacular, and very, very white. I’m upstairs on the mezzanine level, where the hallway forms a rectangle with rooms feeding off it, and the expansive open living area on view below. The stairway is majestic, like the kind a 1950s movie starlet glides down, ready for an audience.
I hear men talking in the distance, but the living area is empty.
My heart stutters in my chest when I catch sight of Renzo to my right, in the kitchen near an enormous island, drinking orange juice from a container.
By the time I reach him, I realize my mistake too late. He’s not Renzo—but Sandro.
He pauses middrink, orange juice bottle midair.
I notch my chin upward. “Sandro.” Twice in one day is two times too many.
His eyes widen then narrow as he takes me in. Like he can’t make up his mind about me.
“Elia.”
I sigh. This is his house, his mistress’s … girlfriend’s … fuckbuddy’s … clothing. “It’s Fina.”
