Page 80 of Dirty Mafia King
My cell phone chimes, and I abruptly awake. It feels like I just fell asleep, my frustration with Bastian’s callous indifference disrupting my peace. I don’t know what I expected. What I do know is my efforts were underappreciated, and I won’t be so invested in pleasing the coldhearted brute anymore.
Thankhimonmywedding night?
As if.
I roll over and fumble with my cell phone. “Hello?” I finally manage in a husky, sleep-deprived voice.
“Lessie?”
I roll up to a seated position. It’s nearly three o’clock. “Renzo?”
“Did you find my passport?”
Alarm bells go off in my mind. “Not yet.”
“Get it.” His tone is urgent. Oh no. No. No. No. “It’s in the top drawer in the nightstand beside my bed.”
I inhale sharply. “Please listen to me. You have to stay in rehab and get clean. Focus on getting better and nothing else.”
“I’m coming for you, Angel.”
“I’m fine, and don’t need your help. Your brother lives in New York and is busy opening a new casino. Zoey is allowed back on the estate, and we’ve become fast friends. I registered for online classes to finish my degree. And I’ve been swimming, golfing, and cooking—I’m actually filling in for Nonna, who returned to Italy, and I will now be preparing dinner for your father.” Renzo quietly listens—at least I hope he’s listening. “Are you there?” I hastily ask.
“Sandro’s in charge of the Riverview Casino?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
He grunts.
“I bought my wedding dress,” I blurt out.
“Fucking hell,” he grunts. “The date set?”
I shake my head, a useless gesture as Renzo can’t actually see me. But it helps clear the cobwebs. If Renzo insists on leaving rehab, I’ll need my wits about me to convince him to stay put. “Not yet. Your father insisted I focus on wedding preparations.”
The truth is, I bought the dress out of spite. After all, Bastian played with me like I was his favorite toy, then ignored me. Why do I enjoy him ordering me about? Why do I obey his filthy whims, like falling asleep with his dried come on my pussy? Why do my darkest desires always revolve around him?
“And he’s behaving?”
I blink. “Who?”
“My father.”
It’s my turn to grunt. “Behave? In many ways, he’s a lot like you.”
Silence greets me.
“You there?”
“You fucking my old man?” he demands.
“No.”
“Be honest. He get in your pants? Because the way you answered me…”
I swallow hard. Technically speaking, the answer’s no. “Of course not.”
“Keep it that way, okay?” he warns. “Or he’ll ruin you just like he’s ruined our lives.”
