Page 9 of Dirty Mafia Torment

Benny has yet to turn a huge profit. And, if he doesn’t wise up and raise his glass in toast, his chance to do so is over. Hard to turn a profit when you’re turning up tulips.

Don Lombardi stands.

Snickers ripple through the room, that’s how much respect the bastard has.

“Don Lucchese.” He raises his glass. “To ensure a new era of peace, I’d like to announce the engagement of my daughter, Elia Seraphina Lombardi, to Carlo Accardo.”

Silence suffocates theroom.

“Accardo’s what—fifty-two?” Sandro mutters.

“Fifty-three, with the hygiene of a pig.”

Judging by the reaction of those around us, we’re not the only ones disgusted.

Lombardi shifts, sensing the unease. “He’s agreed to wait until Elia’s twenty-first birthday.” With that, he sits, shoulders hunched, eyes down.

My attention falls on Fina.

She pours herself wine from a bottle that doesn’t belong at that end of the table, and casually sips it. Like she’s unaware of the pity-filled glances cast her way.

“In this world, that’s how the Life goes,” Sandro murmurs, watching her, too.

There’s no middle ground in the famiglie. Escape it or let it sweep you under.

If my goddamn future wasn’t so precarious, I’d almost feel bad for her.

Present

Fina.Fina. Fina.

Cold water hits my face, then I’m slapped. My head snaps to the side, and I slowly return to the present. Light blinds me as awareness creeps in.

I pushed things too far this time.

I’m hanging from a Saint Andrew’s cross, arms and legs spread wide and wrists and ankles tied, knees buckled and body lax. Naked. Blood pumped full of coke, Adderall, and hell if I know what else.

The scene’s a blur. I was whipped and abused, first by a kinky couple who took turns with the braided leather flogger and then by everyone watching, who joined in, tongues colliding around my dick,sucking me off, then denying my orgasm. Pure ecstasy filled with pain and pleasure. But it wasn’t enough … it’s never enough.

“Tagliatelo e rivestitelo prima che arrivino i soccorritori,” a man nearby exclaims.

Cut him down and clothe him.

Before the emergency workers arrive.

Did I even come before darkness disrupted the fun?

Cursing, Guiseppe, a club guard, uses a switchblade to free my wrists and ankles while a second guard, Giovanni, grabs hold of me, then lowers me to the floor.

I’m too weak to do much but twist my lips into a lopsided grin.

Scowling, they stare down at me. “Il tuo polso si è fermato.” Your pulse stopped.

“Sei morto.” You died.

“Come fai a vivere?” How are you even alive?

Fina …