Page 23 of Dirty Mafia Torment

It’s the kind of perfect California day where sunlight cascades over the hills and the ocean waves break on the horizon. The sky stretches wide above, and the crisp coastal air rolls over us. Top down and sunglasses on, my hair catches in the breeze.

The world ours to chase.

And it will be … it must be.

“Beautiful day,” I murmur, glancing his way.

He stretches his long legs lazily, head tilted back against the seat, face basking in the sun. “Beats the humidity back East,” he replies effortlessly.

We’re talking—it’s a start. Light, easy, the kind of conversation that makes twisting him around my finger feel completely doable. Because attraction … obsession, really … aside, this is business.

“Ever been in the Pacific Ocean?”

“No.” His voice dips into a low, seductive rumble. “If that’s where we’re headed, I didn’t pack a bathing suit.”

I can’t help a smirk. The things I know about this man … how little he cares about clothes, for instance…

Still, beyond a few mafia gatherings and one unforgettable encounter, we don’t truly know each other. I’ve been stalking him on social media for years, so there’s that. But to say I’m prepared for the raw, dark masculinity radiating from the seat beside me is an understatement.

“How have you been?”

He smirks. Just that.

I press on. “And your father? How is he?”

“Ambitious.”

A single word is all he gives me.

“And your brother?” Gag me.

He snorts. “Like you give a rat’s ass about Sandro. Are we going to keep playing nicey-nice, or are we going to get to why I’m really here?”

I frown. “Nicey-nice.”

He leans over, snatches my sunglasses from my face, and casually flings them over his shoulder.

“What the hell, asshole?” I shout, watching them tumble into the canyon to our right. “They were Prada.” Bought with my father’s credit card, one of the few rewards after he backhanded me for being sick and missing that trip to Chicago to meet Carlo. Iearnedthose sunglasses.

“Now they’re nada.”

Fury sparks through me as I lock eyes with him. “I forgot what a self-serving dick you are.”

He chuckles. “There she is. Hiding behind the niceties.”

“I’m not hiding?”

“No? Then where’s the girl brave enough to, out of the fucking blue, send me a daring, naughty picture, and reminding me what a budding deviant lurks beneath the princess shell?” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tightly rolled paper, sparks it, and draws in a deep drag. The sweet, pungent scent of marijuana curls around us. “To answer your question, I was bored shitless until that picture showed up.”

“Must be nice, that luxury of boredom.”

“For most, yeah. But for me? It’s dangerous. Boredom brings on my darkest vices.”

I tilt my head, studying him more carefully. He’s a powerful mafioso’s wild, rule-breaking son, yet boredom is what he finds dangerous? Fascinating.

On the surface, it’s golf outings, social gatherings, the occasional mafia affair. But beneath the pretty picture he presents, his world is deliciously wicked, filled with underground fight clubs, high-end sex clubs, nights ripe with drugs, whiskey, and sin. Renzo thrives on flirting, with anything on two legsandwith destruction. If I could capture a fraction of that life, one small nibble of that forbidden freedom, I’d feel alive in ways I’ve only imagined.

But freedom in any way, shape, or form is why I lured him here.