Page 42 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

An endless sapphire blue sea stretches out before me, with sailboats and yachts scattered across the water like brushstrokes on an impressionist canvas. The serene water, salty breeze, and sunshine offer a welcoming embrace, and for the briefest moment, I forget why I’m here.

Below to my left lies an Olympic-sized pool surrounded by white loungers. A Tiki-style bar with tall stools sits poolside, flanked by striped white and blue canopies and matching daybeds. To the far right, a casita stands as a miniature replica of the villa itself.

Shouting echoes from the opposite direction. Across several football fields and too far for a discreet call for help, a group of teenagers has gathered on a narrow cliff jutting over the sea. One by one, they leap off the edge, vanishing from sight. My heart pounds as I lean forward, only finding relief when I spot the boys minutes later, swimming toward a small beach.

So carefree. Sofree.

Life can be so beautifully cruel, can’t it?

The villa is unlike any place I’ve ever visited, and I’ve only glimpsed the room and the view. It’s the kind of place you bookmark on Vrbo and fantasize about, the sort of dream destination a TikTok travel influencer would kill to showcase.

Italy—must be. My kidnappers spoke Italian.

Far, far away from Marietta.

Far away from anyone who gives two figs about me.

Loud banging causes me to spin and tighten the bedsheet around me. I stare into the room at the door, waiting for Scarface or another mafioso to charge inside.

Several minutes pass, and nothing.

My stomach protests, and my eyes are drawn to the table. Lord, is that a teapot? If they wanted me dead, they wouldn’t serve me tea in fine china.

So, what’s the plan, Riley? What will you do?

Tea first.

Then bacon.

Followed by whatever else waits for me.

“Puttana.”

A dark-haired woman in a white uniform with an exceptionally short skirt glares at me from between the Frenchdoors. She’s beautiful, with a tight, tucked waist and curves men undoubtedly drool over, though her hostile expression ruins the effect.

It’s been three days, and different women have been bringing food to the room. They’re all exceptionally gorgeous, with dark hair and wide almond-brown eyes, wearing matching white uniforms with skirts so short, I get an eyeful when they bend over.

One thing more they have in common? They hate me.

At least it’s clear who keeps pounding on my door.

This morning’s brunette jabs her finger toward the tray on the table. “Stai zitta e fai colazione.”

If I could bottle her undisguised loathing and sell it, I could buy an expensive yacht like the kind I’ve spent days watching and sail away. Most of my time is spent in a chair I dragged outside, sunning myself while contemplating life.

And death.

“Please. Telefono.” I gesture to my ear like I’m making a call. Repeating the request I’ve asked the others.

She mimics the gesture, flashing me the finger as she does so. “Non essere patetica!”

Don’t these women get I’m a prisoner?

The bedsheet slips, and her gaze flicks over me. What she sees only infuriates her further. “Non sei proprio il suo tipo, sai?”

“I don’t understand.”

She throws her hands up and charges off, kicking the fluffy white throw rug on her way out of the room.