Page 77 of Dirty Mafia Torment

“Our capo di tutti capi also wants men on you. You know, since things here are amping up.”

He leaves the room—and me—wondering if I, the goddamn king of players, just got played at my own game.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

RENZO

Ass up.

That sums up my night so far.

I’m being tailed, and this time by mafiosi. Normally, I could lose them without breaking a sweat. Years of slipping by my father’s and brother’s men made sure of that. But that’s exactly why things have gone bottoms up.

My so-called security team spotted the tail and went full Rambo. Guns out, chaos unleashed. The streets exploded in gunfire, stone facades crumbled like stale biscotti, locals running for cover. But the mafiosi following me? They were sharp, trained, and vanished without leaving so much as a bloody shoe print behind. No one left to interview. No answers about what they want with me.

Dante tried to argue and thought I should keep the protection. But he knew I would shake them anyway, and eventually caved.

Didn’t take long for the mafiosi to find me again. Now, as I lead them through the winding alleys of Rome, I get the sense this isn’t a hit. They’re not pushing, not closing in. I think they want to talk.

They’re going to earn the privilege.

It’s past midnight, and I’ve spent the better part of an hour toying with them. I play the part of an easy target, stumbling through the streets, half-drunk and unbothered. Now it’s time to blow their minds; maybe they’ll get a few other things blown too, if they’re bold enough.

I lead them into Rome’s most infamous sex club, La Vita Nera. The Dark Life. A place meant to mock La Dolce Vita, though I suppose it depends on how one defines pleasure.

The place is packed. The night’s already in full swing.

I breathe it in, sin, spice, and everything not nice. A familiar hunger coils tightly in my gut. I ache for a taste, to sink my toes into depravity, to feel it under my skin, between my teeth, slick on my tongue. The thought of going into a scene sober is tempting, so fucking tempting. It’d be a novelty, something completely foreign.

But I didn’t come to La Vita Nera for pleasure.

I head to the bar and order a vodka shot with two bottles on the side, sliding the bartender a thick roll of Euros. “Free drinks on me. I’ll take the bottles filled with water.”

He raises a brow, but says nothing, just nods and gets to work.

I dip two fingers into the vodka shot and touch them to my neck as if I’m dabbing on cologne. Just another layer to sell the illusion for when we finally speak, and they catch a whiff.

The scent hits hard. Familiar. Sharp. A promise soaked in heat and ruin.

An aching echo stirs deep within. Sharp, dangerous, familiar. It whispers promises I’ve heard before.Just one sip. One taste. No one will know.Just a little fun, a small blur to soften the edges.

It would be so easy.

Addiction doesn’t bargain, it steals. One swallow and I’ll ruin weeks of sobriety. And if that happens, I might not make it back this time.

I shake my head. No damn way am I fucking things up. I’m clean, and I’m staying that way.

You’ve got this, asshole. Mind over matter.

I grab the bottles, then stalk off, drinking from each as I go. The men step out from behind a red velvet curtain and fall in behind me. Just to fuck with them a bit more, I stop short and spin in their direction.

They dodge for cover.

Smirking, I sink into a velvet sofa shaped like a sapphire peanut. Then I drink, and drink, and keep drinking, flooding my bladder with enough water to wash away decades of damage.

Two gorgeous creatures wander over, naked as the day they were born, to sit beside me. I toss an arm around each of them.

“Perché te ne stai seduto qui, così bello, tutto solo?” I’m asked. Why am I alone? Technically, I’m not.