Page 165 of Dirty Mafia Torment

He simply smirks.

My attention falls on something in the center of the arena. A small round table dressed with a red-checked cloth, two tall candles, a vase of red roses, and champagne on ice with crystal flutes.

“Is this part of the tour?” I murmur, caught between awe, disbelief, and the thrill of knowing he orchestrated every second.

“Hey, Fina!”

I whip around. Bianca’s waving from the amphitheater seats, flanked by Aunt Teresa and Camilla. Riley’s there too, with Sandro of all people. They wave wildly, then point behind me.

Joy hits me like a punch. Everything I’ve been through, everything I dreamed about … I’ve never felt so happy.

I turn.

Renzo’s on one knee, ring in hand.

“Here?” I blurt. “Not the opera? Not some fancy restaurant?”

“This is the perfect place.” His smirk curves into something softer. “Ask me why.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re fighters, Fina.” His expression’s fierce in a way I’ve never witnessed before. “And look at you. You don’t stay down. You rise. You fucking thrive. I’m not just in awe, I’m proud. So damn proud.” His voice thickens, my tears spurring him on. “Elia Seraphina Lombardi, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

He slips the ring onto my finger, pulls me into his arms, and kisses me. Cheers erupt from the seats, echoing off the ancient stone.

Love is like looking through a kaleidoscope. On bright days, light filters through, scattering soft, gentle colors across your vision. On dark days, colors clash and compete for attention, rich and saturated, intense and mesmerizing, beautiful in a different way.

And as I kiss my fiancé, my obsession, my heart, I know I’ll never want it any other way.

EPILOGUE

DANTE

I takea long pull from my cigar, the smoke curling slow and decadent toward the ceiling. My thighs spread wider, my hand fisting tight in the blonde’s ponytail. I give a sharp yank, forcing her down until her lips are crushed to my base. Her throat works around me as she gags slightly, eyes watering, mascara bleeding into thick black streaks.

She looks like hundreds of women I’ve had. Hungry, depraved, ruined. She’ll come back for more. They always do.

Dark hair, darker eyes, and a face that gets me into as much trouble as it gets me out of, I possess that Italian charm women eat up. I like expensive things; they like to be spoiled. I like to look good in tailored suits fitted to my muscular frame; they undress me with their eyes. My cars purr, and so do they, in my bed and around my dick.

My reputation is well-earned, and I live by one motto: Work hard, play hard, get hard.

It works for me.

As does California.

My new house sits in the Monterey hills where I can watch the Pacific roll in or descend the steps to my own private cove. Glass walls face the ocean and drench the rooms in sunlight. I grilled a time or two from the deck off the living room, the taste of the salty air as invigorating as the steaks I enjoy. Inside my home, everything’s black walls, oak wood, and white accents. Very male. Very me.

In the bedroom, a king bed faces the sea, but retractable blackout blinds block out the light when I need rest, particularly after nights spent in the best Los Angeles clubs money can buy. It’s a waterbed with a thermostat that guarantees the perfect fit for my mood.

My Monterey home is my castle.

A place I never eat and fuck in.

Where I’m at right now, at my apartment in Los Angeles, is my fuckpad. I have them in other cities too, New York, Rome, Tokyo. Sebastiano busts my balls about it constantly. He doesn’t get that I like my own space. My own sheets that smell like sunshine. A mattress that hasn’t been fucked on by God knows how many strangers.

I like entertaining on my terms, with everything I want at arm’s reach.