Page 16 of Dirty Mafia Torment

I rake my eyes over her. All buttoned up, hair in a twist, makeup flawless. A woman men marry. I could have her on this desk, skirt hiked and thighs spread within minutes. No challenge there.

“You died.”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to die?”

“No.” I unwrap a purple lollipop I stole on my arrival from a jar by the door and slip it into my mouth. Enjoying the pick-me-up from the sugar burst while Debbie Downer here tries to go deep.

She can’t help me.

I’ve crossed the fine line so many times it’s faded into the earth.

Psychiatrists get off on exploring trigger moments.

My fucking issues stem from not pulling the trigger—literally.

A few months ago, the Twelve gathered in Rome, with Sandro and me in attendance. My father demanded an audience with thefamiglie heads and called out the capo of the southeast, Bible Belt Benny Manocchio, and his puppet, Emilio Conti, for their interference with the Beneventi casino expansion. Like I said, we don’t have a shutoff valve. Fuck around and find out, is our family motto.

They denied involvement.

My father then hauled Conti’s uncle from our rental car’s trunk, handed me a gun and the incredible honor of becoming a made man right then and there.

For years, I’d contemplated this moment and how it’d play out. The dread that’d hit me. The reluctance to step up into the spotlight that comes with being my father’s son.

But my mind is twisted, bent. Un-fucking-ly unpredictable.

Everyone assumes I balked. Even my father. Even my goddamn twin. No one sees the truth.

There have been whispers ever since.

Wild. Unreliable.Weak.

My therapist flips open a file, then clears her throat. “Your IQ is 151?”

“That what it says?”

“That’s exceptionally high.”

“Exceptionally irrelevant, with one exception.” I take a long lick of my lollipop, then tap it against my temple. “This fucking head is a weapon. One snap and I’m not a man anymore but your worst nightmare. No remorse. No soul. Just hunger. But at least there’s sex and drugs to keep the beast at bay.”

She’s pleased I’ve opened up though not taking me seriously.

Rome was the trigger moment that sent me spiraling. I hurt everyone in the wake of it. Smashed expectations, broke promises, becoming the man everyone believes I am.

I’ve done horrible, shitty things, and am struggling to find a way out.

The shrink leans in, still stuck on IQ. “Craving stimulation is common in the highly intellectual.”

“Or maybe you’re projecting. Looking for someone who shares your boredom in day-to-day life.”

Her lips part. Yeah, I can psychobabble, too.

“You attended Harvard?” It’s a rhetorical question with the answer on the wall.

“Yes.”

“You ever meet Massimo Grassi?”