Page 41 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“Let me hear you, Riley.”

My heart thumps wildly. “Please …Alessandro…”

He positions my palms on the glass. “Brace yourself,” is all the warning I get before he thrusts forward, violently and without reservation. I still, giving in to the familiar hardness between my thighs. Basking in his possession.

This feels soreal.

Inch by beautiful inch, he withdraws with agonizing slowness, and then shoves forward hard. My breasts flatten against the glass as he pins me to it, fucking me furiously. He hooks an arm around my waist to prop me in place when my knees give out.

I groan, anxious for the glide of his cock through my slit, ready to go off like a rocket.

Except he doesn’t shift higher.

I need himthere. Why hasn’t he shifted higher?

And no comments about my excitement?

No praise for my submission?

The dream begins to fade. No. Please, no. I’m not ready to let it go. I can’t lose him all over again.

The warmth against my back disappears, and I slide down the glass, water washing his seed from my bottom.

Stay. Please.

Exhausted, I curl into a ball on the shower floor. Still, words I wish I could have said form.

Don’t leave me again.

CHAPTER 8

RILEY

“Alessandro, stay.”

Sunlight warms my face as imagined words wind through my subconscious. My eyelids are heavy, and it takes my full concentration to open them. Body aches and parched throat register next, but the memories, like a train horn breaking through the fog, have me scrambling into a seated position.

Holy hell.

It all comes back at once. Ciro’s murder. The gun crashing against my head. My mafiosi kidnappers. A prick in the arm. A plane ride.

Applesauce.

I’m in an unfamiliar room, in a stranger’s bed, naked and disoriented. Sore arm, sore neck and throat … from his fingers …

I frown.

A shower?

My eyes grow wide, and I dip my hand between my thighs. Not tender or swollen—no one abused me while I was drugged.

My therapist used to make me write lists, a repertoire of positive images to draw from during the darker days. At first I found comfort in it, making list after list, even enjoying the process. But with the constant attention—reporters swarmingmy grandparents’ lawn, Mema’s friends with their baked casseroles and half-baked smiles—those darks days turned into a waking nightmare. And when the news broke that my father wasengagedto that monster—a fact he neglected telling me, which I had to learn from the TV—I burned every last one of the lists.

I’ve subconsciously created a new list, one completely centered around him, haven’t I? Memories of our shower sex ranking among the best? A way to cope with witnessing a murder. To deal with the fact I’ve been kidnapped and possibly trafficked … though my prison isn’t what you’d expect.

Everything in the bedroom is white: the duvet and sheets, the walls and furniture, the crisscrossed beams overhead, even the painted hardwood floor. A table with two chairs sits against a wall, set for dining. My stomach rumbles as the smell of bacon wafts through the air.

I ignore my hunger pangs as I spot the French doors, and then scramble from the bed, dragging the sheet with me. I step onto a small black wrought iron balcony, one of three extending from the sprawling whitewashed villa perched majestically on a mountainside cliff. I stand here, mesmerized, while transported to another world.