Page 92 of Dirty Mafia Torment

Disgust is written across her expression.

It’s simply a reflection of my own.

“Who knows about my fall from grace?” I demand.

“If you fell from grace, it wasn’t off a ladder but astep stool.”

“Shit, Fina. Answer me.”

“Dante asked me to find you, with strict orders to use discretion. No one else knows, not even my great-aunt—and you’ve been here a week.”

Panic sets in. “A fucking week?”

“You were out of it.”

Of all people, Dante sendsherafter me. I’ll smash his face in for it after I thank him for covering for me. I’m a lucky bastard if, after all my bullshit, my reputation’s still intact.

“Just to be clear, I did this under duress,” she says, words clipped.

“And here I thought your obsession with me hadn’t faded.” I try to flash a smile, but it dies halfway there.

Her gaze sweeps over me, slow, deliberate, full of loathing. Then she exhales, sharp and resigned, and grabs a hay bale like she’s trying not to throw it at my face.

“My LA girl feeding farm animals now?” I ask, voice hoarse.

“Something like that.”

“Where are you going?” The question escapes before I can stop it. Restraints are more of a turn on when they’re part of a kink scene, not when I’m chained up like a rabid dog.

“To work.”

I rattle the cuffs. “You’re leaving me like this?” I’m coated in sweat, shame, and seven days of regret.

“There’s water and healthy snacks in the cooler over there. And, if you need to go, there’s a bucket to pee in.”

I find both within reach. “Don’t go.”

She pauses, biting her lip. That small gesture betrays her. But then, every muscle rigid, she snaps her armor back into place, like it’s her against the world.

And knowing what she’s been through, it has been.

“Zia Teresa’s waiting at the restaurant,” she says. Then, quieter but sharper, she cuts me into tiny bits.

“Unlike you, I keep my promises.”

FINA

Blinded by Dante’s offer,I clearly didn’t think things through when I agreed to our deal. Did I really believe I could drop Renzo in a bale of hay, then walk away, leaving him to rot in his addiction, without it ripping me apart? Did I think I’d be unaffected? That I could chain the man I’d crushed on so fiercely that pieces of my heart broke, watch him unravel—twitching, sweating, moaning in pain like a ghost of his former self trapped in my barn—and feel nothing?

This past week has been hell. Watching him come undone, his body jerking through withdrawal, soaked in sweat, teeth chattering, eyes wild one second and completely vacant the next. Sometimes he’d thrash. Other times he wouldn’t move for hours, just whisper, “Don’t go. Don’t go.” Like I’m the one who left him. Like this is somehow my fault.

I’ve called Dante a dozen times, voice shaking. His answer never changes. Handle it. Help him through it. Don’t make noise. Change the gauze on his wound. Keep the secret. Act normal.

But nothing about this is normal. Nothing about watching a man destroy himself feels survivable.

I hate Renzo for this. For letting himself fall so far. For dragging me down with him. For making me watch. For making me care when I’ve tried so hard not to.

How did this happen? How did someone as smart, as strong, as sharp as Renzo end up like this? Was he already spiraling when he abandoned me to my fate? Had the poison sunk its teeth into him even back then? Was there a trigger point, something that caused him to use?