Page 54 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

I’m close, if not already there. “Whatever you think I’ve done, you’re wrong.”

“A week from now, tell me that same lie, and we’ll reevaluate where we’re at.” He moves closer to the cage, his fist quickening the pace. “Squeeze your breasts together.”

Confusion washes over me.

“Be a good dog and do it. As a reward, I’ll bring you a bowl of water and food. Fuck, I’ll even pat your head.”

A tear leaks out. But I obey, because it’s unclear how long I’ll be in here. I cup my breasts and push them together.

“Fuck. Keep looking at me with those big, sorrowful eyes.”

“You won’t … You can’t be this twisted…”

“Tell me the truth,” he grinds out, his movements borderline frantic. “You miss the taste of me?”

My lips part.

“That’s it. Open wide. I could feed you nothing but my come.” His warm seed hits lower, missing my lips for my chin, before he unleashes on my breasts.

He always praises me afterward: What a good girl you are, taking a shower in my come. Look at you, decorated with my seed.

I’m frozen in place, his come dripping from my chin and nipples; sticky and vulnerable, so vulnerable. While he tuckshimself away and hooks his belt through the loops, like he’s ending a business transaction.

Silence echoes loudly in the room.

Finally, he tosses his shirt at me. “I don’t want your stench stinking up my office. My man will bring you to a bedroom to shower. You’ll have an hour of freedom, then it’s back to the cage.”

Then he leaves me here.

Dirty.

Degraded.

Destroyed.

CHAPTER 12

SANDRO

Sweat mingleswith blood as I heave the heavy barbell overhead. My lip has busted open, and my ribs curse me for my foolishness. From next to the weight bench, Tommaso reprimands me with his eyes.

“What?” I bark once the barbell is back in position.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Keep it that way.” I roll to my feet.

“Sandro.” Tommaso reaches for me as I stagger, but I brush him away. Pain is tolerable. Failure is not.

“You need to give your body time to heal.” It takes him less than a minute to begin blabbing, like I asked for his advice. “By recovering in bed and allowing the meds to do their thing.”

“Like you’re doing?” The asshole was in a wheelchair days ago yet ran a mile last night. Rain, shine, fractured ribs—he never stops.

Behind the towel, I hide my winces while wiping the sweat from my face. The medication might help if I didn’t dump it down the toilet. Not that I tell Tommaso I’ve gone cold turkey. A fighter by nature, he understands a thing or two about recovery, so his advice is solid even if his own actions are contradictory.

Pain management will only dull my senses when I need them sharp. Unlike my brother, I can ignore my inner demons, especially when so much is at stake. The quicker I can show my face again, the less time my father will spend dwelling on what a disappointment I am. Conti sliced and diced—as Tommaso so eloquently put it—with his body parts delivered express mail to Rhode Island should obliterate any lingering thoughts concerning my capabilities.

“I’ll say this once, and then I’ll drop it,” he comments.