Page 94 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I fumble around, cursing the pitch-black barn, until I find the lantern and light it. Warm light spills over him, and I stumble, distracted. Damn it, I should’ve kept us in the dark. Light makes things clearer, when all I want to do is keep my distance. In and out, a nurse with her patient. He thrives when things are murky, so who am I to change that? Better keep my distance. This way, he’ll never disappoint me again.
By the time I reach him, he’s already devouring the meal.
Guilt stirs in my chest, but I smother it. He put himself here. He deserves every last consequence.
I settle onto a nearby haystack and glance around. He’s turned this place into a makeshift living space. Hay bales are arranged like a modified prison cell, complete with couch, table, even a high stack below a window he can’t reach, being chained as he is. He’s been busy and is restless.
A reminder that dangerous men don’t do well in cages.
“I see you’ve been nesting,” I mutter, my lips twitching before I can stop them.
He pauses midbite. A thick strand of fettuccine Alfredo clings to his lips.
My breath catches.
Even filthy, wild and half-feral, he radiates sex. It pours off him in waves. And I hate that my body responds like it’s starving—for more than a lick of his fettuccine.
His eyes lock on mine, slow and sure as he drags the pasta between his lips. He licks the sauce away like he knows what he’s doing.
And damn him, he does.
Heat rushes up my neck. I rip my eyes away, but it’s too late.
He knows exactly his effect on me.
“Keep feeding me like this,” he says, his voice gravel and honey, “and I might never leave.”
“Thanks for recognizing my hospitality.”
He snorts, unbothered, and keeps eating.
I wait until he finishes before revealing the dessert, two slices of orange polenta cake, rich and sticky with caramel drizzle. I’d lied earlier, claimed I was full when Aunt Teresa brought it to the kitchen table. But I saved a piece for me, and him.
Hospitable, I tell myself. I can’t send him back to Dante malnourished.
His groan after the first bite nearly undoes me. “God, this is fucking insane.”
“Coming from you, that carries weight.”
He smirks like he knows exactly what I meant.
“What’s the chance of a shower?” he asks, licking the last of the caramel off his fork.
“Tomorrow,” I say too quickly.
I don’t mention my aunt will be staying in the city. That it’s just the two of us now. On this farm. Alone.
All day, starting tomorrow.
And all night.
A shiver slides down my spine.
He’s filthy. Grimy. Gross. It’s unnerving how every part of me is strung tight and humming.
We finish dessert in a silence that makes my heart pound. Him watching me. Me pretending not to feel the burn of it everywhere, my horror in myself growing.
The sooner he recovers, the better.
