Page 151 of Dirty Mafia Torment

He sees the challenge, and is seconds from snapping.

“She speaks Italian, Emo. She doesn’t understand you.”

His gaze slices back to me. “What did you call me?”

“Emo. You know, emo—like when someone has too much emotion and not enough substance.”

He jabs two fingers into my wound, then clamps down on it.

Pain rips through me, almost blinding me, before he jerks me upright.

“Move. The van’s waiting.”

I give Riley the smallest shake of my head as he forces me further inside the church. We’re halfway across it when he stops short.

I stumble, horrified I nearly slammed into him.

“You,” he bellows. “Dai, andiamo!”

No. I silently plead. Run.

But Riley, eyes frantic and looking utterly terrified, races to follow us.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Maybe I’ll keep you too.”

We descend into the belly of the church. The air grows colder, heavy with stone, dust, and something older, deader. Tombs line the granite floor, more ancient than anything sold at the antique fair. My stomach churns as my eyes register the duffel bag set on top of the tomb closest to the door.

He catches my horrified expression and laughs, the evil sound bouncing off the walls so loudly, God couldn’t silence it.

If we follow him outside, we’re done.

If we open the door, we’re done.

Psycho or not, he’s one man.

My arm aches. The scar tissue from his burn itches. Every cut, every bruise, every time he’s called me bitch. I’m done running. I’m done hiding. I’m done with arrogant men who getoff on hurting women. I wait for peace to wash over me. For light to shine down on this moment of clarity like I’m guided from above.

But peace isn’t what settles into my bones—rage does.

“You won’t believe this, Riley,” I begin, my grip tightening on my pistol. “But Emo gets a lot of drivers honking at him.”

“He does?”

His eyes flicker from her to me. “You said she doesn’t understand English.”

I continue, unflustered, mind made up. “I can hear them now. Honk, honk. Hey, Cunt Stud!”

Lord, his outrage is a beautiful sight.

I smirk. “I did it.”

The truth hits him before I even finish speaking.

“That’s right. I carved Cunt Stud into your precious Ferrari’s paint.”

He loses his mind, charging at me like a bull.

I free my pistol and aim, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Riley moving fast—but with his damaged eye and emotionally charged state, he misses it.