Page 37 of Dirty Mafia King

A few yards from the main house and opposite the pool, the casita belongs in a high-end resort instead of on a mafioso’s estate. Floor-to-ceiling accordion doors lead into an enormous great room, with beautifully crafted wooden accents and a highly polished floor.

The space is open concept. A state-of-the-art kitchen occupies the back wall, and a dining area is off to its right. Two bedroom suites bookend the main living space.

And the enormous master shower is unlike any I’ve seen before, with its Bluetooth connectivity. You can set the lighting, water temperature, and tunes with a few clicks of a remote. For my first shower, I pressed disco moodlighting, cranked up Harry Styles’s “Watermelon Sugar,” and danced in the hot jet spray like a fool.

None of this disguises the fact I’m a prisoner. The guards patrolling the grounds confirm it.

I sigh and step into the vegetable garden behind the casita. An older Italian woman, Nonna Rosa, arrives at the estate every afternoon at four o’clock to stock the refrigerator and cook dinner. She buys me groceries from a list I compile, and the mafioso guards bring them inside. Except nothing tastes better than fresh produce, so the garden’s a delight. I pass time cooking and reading, andnotdwelling on Sebastiano Beneventi’s finger-fuck.

Do I regret insisting he touch me?

Regret is a troublesome word. You regret eating that extra slice of chocolate cake. You regret not telling your mother you loved her enough while she was alive. You’re not supposed to regret your first non-self-induced orgasm.

But I do—except for the wrong reason. I’ve relived the experience, over and over, despite his cruelty and the way it ended. If anything, the experience has awakened this craving inside me. Like the first taste of ice cream with ten times the sweet rush.

He comes and goes without the slightest acknowledgment. I’m as insignificant as the tomato I’m about to pluck off a vine.

Do I still fear him? Yes.

Do I trust him? Sort of—he’s a man of his word. My father’s alive and flourishing; his bank accounts reinstated, his new role as chairman of the East Coast Gaming Commission giving him the ego boost he craves. And his popularity’s at an all-time high as the “mugging” earned him voter sympathy. Daddy Dearest’s back in Bastian’s good graces, and I still bear the consequences of my family’s actions.

And now … my own.

Do I regret encouraging Bastian?

I sigh. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

I wish Sienna would resurface so I could talk to her. I haven’t heard from my sister. Truth is, I’m envious. Because she succeeded where I failed.

Sheescaped.

I sigh, and then begin selecting the ripest tomatoes. They’re perfect for the homemade sauce I’m preparing. At least I’ve cooking to help pass the time.

You can take online classes. Finish your degree. Add some normalcy to your life.But who do I ask for permission?

Sandro? No thank you.

Bastian?

The sun hangs low, the warm rays soothing my soul. I’m a survivor. I’ll find a way to make the best out of this situation. Haven’t I already taken a tiny step?

It’s almost time.

I rearrange the tomatoes in my makeshift apron with shaky hands. Busying myself.

I hear them before they break through the tree line.

Runners following the golf path that connects to a larger path toward the main house. The larger path winds behind the casita and, at its closest point, is about three yards away.

I spy Bastian immediately. Shirtless. Sweat defining his muscular torso. Flat abs. Thin grey shorts clinging to his hip bones.

His head turns as they race by.

My heart flutters as I avert my own, and pretend I didn’t catch him looking.

Mission accomplished, I head back inside.

CHAPTER13