Page 34 of Dirty Mafia Torment

I melt into his chest, accepting the comfort he offers. My pulse is still wild, my body still shaking.

For a long moment, he says nothing. Then softly, “Look, Fina…”

“I’m fine,” I lie. Because I’m anything but fine. I’m already in too deep, drowning fast, desperate for him to keep holding me up. “I wanted this.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

I lean back and look up at him. In unguarded moments like this, I see him clearly. The clever wheels in his mind are turning, pulling him toward a conclusion he clearly hates.

“Fuck.”

My heart jumps; my fingers reflexively reach for the pearls at my throat. But they’re gone, lost somewhere between the car and the desert earth. I don’t need a damn necklace to prove I’ll survive anymore. The weight it carried and the small comfort it gave me are no longer necessary after today. “What is it?” I whisper.

“I want to do more to help you.”

I frown, not understanding. “Okay…”

His jaw tightens. “I don’t want to, but … we’re getting married.”

The blunt declaration hits me like a shock wave. “What?” I spring from his lap then straddle his thighs, facing him.

“After Rome, I’ll go to my father. If he agrees?—”

I cut him off. “You will?” Hope bursts inside me, fierce and unexpected. Lorenzo Beneventi is untouchable. If I marry him, neither Carlo nor my father can touch me. It’s why I approached him with the same idea when I was sixteen, where he didn’t just shoot me down but ran away.

He curses under his breath.

“When? My wedding to Carlo is on my twenty-first birthday.”

His entire body stiffens. “That miserable bastard couldn’t wait to have you.”

I flash him a teasing smile, trying to lighten the weight pressing down. “Won’t be my first.”

But he doesn’t smile back. Instead, the air chills, the warmth between us icing over as if he regrets opening his mouth. As if he is already retreating.

“You sure about this?” I demand.

“Like I said earlier, I’m not husband material. Not now, not ever. Don’t get your hopes up, and don’t fall in love with me. We’ll marry, then divorce. You’ll be free. That’s all this is.”

The words cut through me, sharp and piercing. I hide the sting behind a sigh and say lightly, “You’re so romantic.”

His mouth curves into something almost like a smile, but his eyes stay bright with warning. “And you’re obsessive.”

I brush my lips against his, a gentle seal on our agreement. “I guess if it is a marriage in name only, there will be no more sex.”

The heat flares back into his gaze, tension rippling through him. I wink, letting him off the hook, and climb off his lap.

The sun slips below the horizon as we dress in silence. The desert stretches endlessly around us, painted in reds and golds while the sky melts into night. Even as darkness falls, the world feels brighter. Possibilities I never dared imagine flicker across the horizon, promising a life I can almost touch.

My eyes drift to the backseat. “The leather is ruined,” I murmur. “My father will be livid.”

He laughs behind me. The sound should warm me, but it carries something brittle, something false. A warning I am too dazed from wicked sex and fragile hope to fully hear.

Instinctively, I ask, “You promise?”

He holds my gaze, silent and unreadable. A slight nod is all I get, but it’s enough. “Better call us an Uber,” he says flatly, and stalks away.

I cling to his promise with both hands.