Page 81 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“More Conor McGregor after a winning fight.” He pauses to listen, before continuing, “Yeah, I understand. Show my face around New York so the vultures can confirm I’m alive and well.”

New York—is he leaving?

“Say hello to her?”

My head snaps up at his utterly disgusted tone. His expression’s laced with anger. Whoever she is, he wants no part of her. “Hard pass.”

The bite of his words are deadly. I don’t envy the woman being discussed.

“Fucking hell. Understood.”

The phone hits the desk, and he leans back with an annoyed exhale.

I don’t know why I comment, but I do. “Your father demands a lot from you?”

He answers me, and I’m just as baffled that he would. “The motherfucking world.”

“Is it difficult being a mafia boss’s son?”

“It’s goddamn la dolce vita when you’renotthe heir.”

I do my best not to react. Alessandro’s a total control freak. Relinquishing power to anyone, even his father, must frustrate him terribly.

Curious, I push harder, though with a soft, gentle voice. “What would your life be like if you weren’t the Beneventi heir?”

“Mine.” He shoots me a look filled with such blistering intensity, I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. Does he mean his life would be his? Or does he mean … I’mhis? Like in his life … in his future?

But that can’t be right. He hates me.

Our eyes lock and hold, and something flashes across his expression. A raw, unguarded vulnerability that makes my heart stop short. Because it reminds me of the morning I nearly died twice—first in his tender arms, and then in a cloud of dust. Why did he keep returning? Why not tell me we were over when I begged him to?

Seconds turn into a minute before a cold steel wall slams back into place.

“How the fuck are you still alive?”

I flinch at his harsh question.

“Six feet under and buried in cement, like your boss. That’s where you should be.”

Lord. Hedidn’t.

“Ciro’s a permanent part of my new casino. A fitting death for that asshole, don’t you think?”

I rise to my feet.

“Sit your ass back down.”

Lord, he’s vicious. Vengeful and cruel. I sit down and press my lips together, struggling not to respond.

“Sit there, with your tits out and lips closed. That’s your job. Not to pry into my life and fucking psychoanalyze me.”

There’s no winning when he’s like this. He opened up, and I snuck in, and then struck a nerve. Now he’s hell-bent on annihilating the tiniest lingering thread that binds us. Like I’m an intolerable weakness that just keeps hanging on.

“I’ve donenothingwrong.”

He glares. “Tell me. How much does a gram of coke run?”

“Are you insane?” I gasp. “How would I know that?”