Page 70 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

I stare at him relaxed in the chair, his eyes still closed. Like he’s on vacation, and not demanding personal answers like who I’ve fucked.

“You let that prick touch you?” Flat tone. Not the slightest indication he actually cares how I answer. Still his question catches me off guard.

“What prick?”

My mind races when he doesn’t answer and it takes a moment to land on who he’s referring to. “Ciro?” My stomach rolls at the thought. “God, no.”

“You sure about that?”

I grind my teeth. “Absolutely.”

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t confirm he believes me. Just lies there, while I suffer the heat and his bone-chilling coldness.

Seconds tick by, and I consider retreating inside. Then, his eyes flash open.

“You’re blocking my sun.”

My lips part. “You should thank me for it.”

He waves his hand impatiently for me to step to the side.

I shuffle to his left. If the stubborn fool wants the late afternoon sun to blister him alive, so be it.

“What size bra are you?”

Unbelievable. “My breasts, again?”

“You’re a 32DD.” He rakes his eyes over me, the one-size-too-small uniform spilling open at the chest—exactly howhe demanded I wear it. “But can you explain why that prick nicknamed you Triple B?”

My jaw drops. “Did Emily tell you that?”

“Your best friend had a lot to say about you. None of it was kind.”

I flinch.

“Stop acting like a wounded animal and answer me.” No compassion, but back to an impatience I’ve grown accustomed to.

“I never understood the nickname. But…” I swallow hard. “…your last name is part of it. It’s an acronym for Beautiful Beneventi Bait.”

“And were you?”

His tone sends a chill through my body. “Bait?” I whisper, dumbstruck.

Our eyes lock as he waits on my answer. And every ounce of me understands on a visceral level that my life depends on my answer.

God help me, what has Ciro done?

“I don’t know.” My body shakes, in fear and in frustration. “Ciro was a coked-up mess. I never examined why he’d call me that.”

Except it’s no use, is it? He believes I betrayed him and hates me for it.

“Maybe,” I whisper.

The air grows impossibly thick, and the uniform’s tight like a wet wool glove. I’m going to faint. I’ll pass out on this pool patio at the foot of this man’s chair, and he’ll either leave me to roast or turn me into toast.

“Here’s how this will work. I snap, and you jump. You do exactly as I say, whenever or wherever I want. You’ll take everything I demand and beg me to go harder. And, most importantly, this will never be about you.”

“Okay.” I’m shocked he didn’t question me further. Yet relieved, too. What if Ciro did use me to get to him—as bait? Alessandro is a mafioso with enemies—I heard him ordering his men to hunt two people down. But it’s impossible to think logically right now, with the bold way he’s staring at me. Either he wants to flay me or eat me alive.