Page 25 of Dirty Mafia Torment

“Don Ferrara is livid…”

“I didn’t fuck them.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“Just watched,” he admits, wheels churning while he figures out how I know about this specific ménage à trois. To his credit, he’s quick. “I erased the picture her friend posted within minutes.” He chokes out a gruff laugh. Like I disturbed his already bent sensibilities. “You obsessed with me or something?”

I pluck the joint from his fingers and take a drag. Another first with this man. “Or something.”

“What, do you have alerts set with my name?”

I blow smoke, mimicking his actions, and give nothing away.

“Shit. You fucking do.” His eyes spark with admiration. “For how long?”

Now that he knows—and hasn’t demanded I pull over or given any signs of disgust—it’s kind of exhilarating.He gets me,I think.

If I was fascinated with him before, I’m enraptured now.

“Why?” he demands.

I offer up a partial truth. “Just a woman in the Life, struggling to see how the other half lives. Try being a woman in this world. I wish I were someone else. Off grid, like a plumber’s daughter. A person whose worth is more than a bargaining chip.” I take another drag. “Someone like you, who does whatever the fuck he wants. Whose father gives a rat’s ass what the famiglie think.”

He silently considers me. “You think it’s easy being Sebastiano Beneventi’s son?”

“Hell yeah. Try being the only Lombardi child.”

“We playing a game now? Who Has It Worse?” He falls back in the seat. “You’re smoking crack if you think my life’s rainbows and butterflies.”

“One of my earliest memories of my father is when he came home one day, covered in blood and carrying a box. I asked him what was inside—thinking the blood was ketchup from the In-N-Out burgers inside the box that somehow exploded all over him. I was six, and persistent.”

“Hard to imagine it,” he mutters.

“I crept into his office while he slept. The box was wrapped in a towel on the floor, and inside was a man’s head. It was the first time I recognized my father wasn’t a plumber but a predator. I learned quickly to always be a step ahead of him or my life will end up like the head in the box.”

“Your father’s a hot-tempered asshole.” He runs his fingers across his jaw. “And mine will have me collecting bodies in boxes after the trip to Rome next week. He’ll push for me to step up. I feel it in my bones.”

My eyes widen. “Step up—like as a made man?”

His lips flatten, like he’s already said too much.

I hold still, watching him, waiting for more. The weed must’ve loosened his tongue, because he finally exhales the truth. “You think my life is mine? My old man gave me time, but that clock ran out. He made it clear; when it’s my turn, I take my place. No excuses. No bullshit.”

“You’re worried about killing a man?”

His eyes cut to me, sharp, almost warning. “Shit. You shouldn’t even know that.”

I roll my eyes.

“Worried isn’t the word I’d use.” He pinches the tip of the joint, examines it, then drops it into the Mustang’s vintage ashtray. Myfather will notice it eventually, and I make a mental note to toss it later. “I don’t want cookie-cutter. The same dull routine, day in and day out. That’s how institutions decay, how people lose their minds, drowning in the monotony of wasted days.”

My breath catches. He’s navigating the Life, just like me.

“I spent years dying a slow death, fueled by adrenaline, proving life outside the famiglie existed, and still came up short. Time’s up. If I’m asked to step up, I will. And it’s not like I shy away from violence … I thrive on it. I’ll bleed, fight, obey, do whatever it takes to earn my place as a mafioso. I owe my father that much.”

“What if you escape the famiglie? Disappear somewhere and start fresh?”

“I’m Lorenzo Beneventi. My fate’s sealed.”