Page 12 of Dirty Mafia King
“Hurry. Before they find us.”
“You.I’llbe long gone.”
“Ah, she speaks.”
Our eyes lock. Mine, full of wonder at the impression we’ve met before. His, bloodshot.
“You’d leave me like this?” He grins a grin that’s for sure charmed a woman or two. What is it about Lorenzo Beneventi that invites a response?
“The pervert who looked up my dress? Let me think about it—yes.”
He attempts to rise but falls onto his ass.
How drunkishe?
“You promised.”
“I did not.” God help me, he’s surprising, even endearing.
“Poor baby. Let me help you,” he repeats my words.
“I was talking to the palm.”
“Right. I opened my eyes to discover you basically straddling my face.”
My cheeks warm.
The voices grow closer.
“You know who I am?” he asks.
“No.” I don’t know why I lie. Maybe because he’s drunk? Maybe because he’s a Beneventi? Maybe because I’m frightened about the future and angry that my dreams have been interrupted by a nightmare.
Maybe because Lorenzo’s Armani suit’s wrinkled? Because a palm frond sticks out of a buttonhole? A bruise mars his right cheek?
He’s a beautiful disaster. I should say goodbye and make my escape.
“Is that you, Alessandro?” a woman calls out.
“Ah, fuck.” He’s on his feet in a heartbeat. “Can you run in heels?”
“Um…”
He sways, in no condition to walk, let alone run.
With a sigh, I weave an arm around his waist. “Where to?”
“The kitchen door. Follow the hall to the end.”
We stumble-run toward the kitchen and pass through it toward another door. Awkwardly, like partners in a potato sack race. Outside, we cross an elevated veranda paved with grey stone slate and stop at steps leading down to a sprawling lawn. A few yards ahead is an enormous pool with a stone waterfall feature at one end and a large casita at the other.
“Thank fuck.” Lorenzo drops the arm anchored around my waist. “I need a drink.”
Isnort. I never snort.
“Judgmental much?”
“Ass-drunk at your father’s parties much?” I shoot back. Shocking him, and myself.
