Page 34 of Mafia Mistress

Chapter Nine

Francesca

I stayed awayfrom the castle for the rest of the day.

Instead I spent the hours with Vincenzo, learning about grapes and wine. I did ask about the borders of the estate, but he said they weren’t walkable, that I would need a car to reach them. Apparently Ravazzani owned quite a lot of land, damn him.

I told myself I kept outside to find a way to escape, but that was a lie. My encounter with the elder Ravazzani in the ballroom had left me shaken...and aroused. He’d been so angry, yet so unbelievably hot as he cornered me, his large body caging me in as he’d tried to intimidate me. Except his touch had been gentle, while his gaze burned with an intensity that flicked a switch inside me, making me ache and soaking my panties. There was a moment where I could have sworn the attraction was mutual, but that was insane. Wasn’t it?

It had to be. I was here to marry his son. And I was anything but sweet around Fausto. He hated me.

But I was woman enough to admit I was attracted to him. It was the way he moved, the way he talked, his gorgeous face and strong body. How he wore his suits. The thick dark hair and lush lips. His hot and cold personality. Everything about him, actually.

Older men didn’t normally do it for me, but Fausto Ravazzani was the exception, it seemed.

He is my kidnapper. What’s wrong with me?

Not so much a kidnapper, considering my father had given me to Ravazzani as payment on a debt. More like a jailer. Still, Fausto needed to let me go. I didn’t want to marry Giulio—and Giulio definitely didn’t want to marry me.

All of this made me more determined to find a way to escape.

Hat in hand, I strolled toward the castle after dusk. The cool night air caused my skin to pebble, and I longed for a sweater. Just as I rounded the corner, two cars raced into the drive.

Not wanting to be seen, I darted behind a tree as the castle’s front door opened. Ravazzani emerged, his fit body clad in just trousers and shirtsleeves, which he’d rolled up high on his forearms. The lights of the house illuminated the firm set of his mouth as he came down the stone steps. This was angry Fausto, which was only slightly less hotter than annoyed Fausto. I could barely tear my eyes away from him.

Three men got out of each car, though the youngest two guests appeared reluctant. They were shoved forward by the older men, and the group followed Ravazzani toward the side of the house. Toward the door to the dungeon.

Holy shit.Trepidation hollowed out my stomach. Was he planning to hurt someone down there?

They all disappeared and I bit my lip. I had no desire to enter the dungeon ever again, but maybe I needed to hear more of Ravazzani’s cruelty and ruthlessness to remind myself of why I could not be attracted to him. The man was a cold-blooded killer. A sociopath. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about licking him from head to toe.

Yes, this was what I needed.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I edged quietly through the bushes until I reached the door. I took my time on the latch, moving slowly so as to not make a sound. When the door opened enough for me to squeeze through, I slipped in and paused on the landing, cracking the door with my foot so I could still see outside.

They were quiet for a few minutes. I suspected Ravazzani was letting his prey sweat it out, building the fear. It seemed like his style. When he finally spoke, it was in slow, measured Italian, but one word was in English. Cocaine.

Had someone stolen from Ravazzani? Double crossed him? Something had definitely gone wrong or they wouldn’t all be in the dungeon.

Whoever he was accusing repeatedly denied it, saying “no” over and over again. Ravazzani grew angrier. “Mi prendi per scemo, Sergio?” he shouted.

A fist smacked against flesh, twice. Then again.

From there, it was a series of pleas, grunts, and moans as the beatings continued. Was Ravazzani doing the hitting or did he delegate the job to one of his men? I pictured him, sleeves rolled high and muscles bunching as he delivered punch after punch, sweat rolling down his face. Instead of repulsing me, it made my heart race and sent heat twisting through my belly.

I was a terrible person.

I chewed the edge of a fingernail and tried to focus on the violence, the wrongness of whatever was happening below, but it didn’t work. I was getting more turned on the longer I stayed here.

A snap echoed followed by a yelp, and I knew a bone had been broken. A finger?

One of the men began sobbing at that point. “Mi dispiace, Don Fausto,” he shouted, his voice racked with pain. Then it sounded like he was begging.

The tone of Ravazzani’s voice changed then. It went from angry to resigned, almost paternal. “Va bene. Dimmi, Rocco.” Tell me.

Rocco began speaking, his voice hitching occasionally, probably from the pain. I couldn’t understand the words, though. Was he explaining why he took the cocaine?

Ravazzani responded, which prompted both Rocco and Sergio to plead some more. Ugh, what were they saying?

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