Page 40 of Dirty Mafia King
“Possiamo acquirstare un forno per la pizza, signore?”
A goddamn pizza oven? Next Nonna will be demanding, on behalf of her little protégée, the keys to my Maserati. My stomach rumbles. Fuck it, I like pizza.
“Purchase whatever is necessary.”
“Grazie, signor Beneventi.” Nonna gathers her bag and leaves. And I pile my plate full of food, wondering what other surprises Miss Amato has in store.
CHAPTER14
ALESSIA
Italian cuisine’s a labor of love, with simple ingredients that take patience and care. And making pasta by hand is an art form.
I spend late afternoons cooking with Nonna, her presence as comforting as the dough in my hands.
This afternoon, with Don Lucchese’s arrival a few days away, Nonna’s left me to prepare dinner while she shops for the best ingredients in Rhode Island. It’s my first time inside the main house alone, and I’m filled with nervous energy. What if I’mdiscovered?
I brush aside my twisted thoughts and focus on what brings me instantaneous pleasure. Dough warmed by my own hands as I knead the dough. Poached plump tomatoes crushed between my fingers and into a sauce bowl. Freshly picked parsley and oregano wafting through the kitchen. This is therapy, Italian style.
I’m wiping flour from my forehead when a small group passes through the kitchen and exits the door.
Shock rolls over me as I count.
Not one. Not two. But three women.
A brunette. A redhead. And a blonde.
They appear and disappear in a blink. But their perfume lingers, poisoning my joy.
I’m not curious or aroused.
I’m livid.
I slam a fist into dough. Flour clouds the air and makes my eyes water. I grab the rolling pin, then beat the perfectly formed mixture as hard as I can. Flattening it into an unmanageable mess.
I imagine the scene, the trio bent over and him behind them. Spanking them barehanded. Flogging their asses. Taking turns finger-fucking them, and more.
It’s not even four o’clock.
Tears form, but I force them back. He’s not the sort of man you play games with. He’d steal an orgasm, snap my neck, then bury me beneath the ninth hole without remorse. Why tempt the beast? Why feed this twisted yearning for his attention? Do I have a death wish?
With a sniffle, I pick up the knife and cut the dough into large strips, and then into smaller ones. The dough’s released too much gluten, which will cause the pasta to break between my fingers. I’ve ruined it.
What does it matter? Any satisfaction in cooking this meal’s exited through the kitchen door along with the happy trio.
“Where’s Nonna?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. Spinning, I gasp at his appearance.
He’s barefoot. In grey running shorts that dangle precariously from his hip bones. Water beads across his muscular chest. Curls, damp from a shower, frame his handsome face. My eyes narrow—scratches run down his neck.
He arches an eyebrow.
“Shopping,” I grind out, having forgotten he asked me a question. My response is quiet yet packs a punch. Like I’ve substituted sinning or murdering for “shopping”.
“I’m fucking starving. What’s for dinner?” He stalks by me to the stovetop. Stirring spoon in hand, he dips it into the white clam sauce and brings it to his lips. Blowing first, he then takes a mouthful.
His eyes close as he savors it.
