Page 122 of Dirty Mafia Torment

“Tell me again you don’t want her here,” I snarl.

He stops fighting. Then laughs. It’s sharp and throws me off. This fucker never laughs, and I don’t understand what’s so bleeding funny.

“What in God’s name is going on?” a woman’s voice cuts in. “Renzo, get off him.”

Riley. Sandro’s girlfriend.

She shoves me, and I roll onto my back, while he’s still laughing.

“You must be Fina,” she says.

“You must be the woman whose underwear I’m wearing,” Fina replies, a smile in her tone.

I almost miss it, too caught up in the underwear part.

“You said to inform you when the doctor arrived,” Riley tells Sandro. “I put him upstairs in my room.”

“Your former fucking room,” Sandro grumbles.

“Come with me…” Riley gestures to Fina. “…and let these two…”

“…fools wrestle like they’re auditioning for WWE?”

Both women chuckle; their friendship’s off to a fucking stellar start. Riley’s great and a calming influence on my brother. Just what Fina needs after the shit she’s been through, even my bullshit.

I spring to my feet. “I’ll carry her.”

“She can walk,” Fina answers, exasperated. Similar to how she’s been for the duration of our journey to Sardinia. Brave and courageous, while I spiraled into a deep hole where all I can think about is revenge.

“We need to talk,” Sandro says, the chill back, then turns and, sweet as melting motherfucking butter, addresses his girlfriend. “Riley, mind showing her to the casita?”

“Will you two be okay?” she asks.

I offer him a hand up asproof.

He smacks it away. “We’ll have a nice lunch tomorrow before shit goes down. Would you arrange that, too?”

Born from the same womb, my twin and I dance to the same rhythm. Move the same. Talk the same. But sometimes he does shit like this, and I’ve got to ask,Who the fucking hell is this guy?

Riley flashes a smile at him. She’s too good for the bastard. “Sure.”

But it’s Fina’s voice, drifting back toward us as they leave, that I cling to. “I’d rather eat dirt than have a meal with that A-hole.”

“She hasn’t changed much.” Sandro moves to the bar. “Want a whiskey?”

“No.”

I hear liquid pour into a glass. Are the cravings still there? Yeah. My demons will always torment me, and recognizing the fact is fucking progress. But a different kind of monster stirs inside, a hungry, violent fuck. A monster ravenous for another taste of Accardo blood.

“You look … different,” Sandro comments. “Is it the drink?”

I cross the office to sit on a couch, and Sandro follows, mirroring my every move like a shadow that never left.

“You know, I never thought I’d hear you turn down liquor.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I never thought you’d act like a pussy-whipped dick, but guess everyone has their moments.”

He glares at me, then softens. “Don’t get me wrong. I love her. But pussy-whipped I’m not.”