Page 95 of Dirty Mafia King
At my own goddamn party.
I snap.
I’m on my feet and moving.
But so are they … disappearing lightning fast from the movie room.
I chase after them like an inexperienced teen pursuing his first love. Yet my excitement’s undeniable, and as I follow them down the hallway toward the kitchen, all the deliciously filthy things I plan on doing to Miss Hungry Eyes spur me on.
I enter the kitchen at a full sprint, but the door is open.
Exiting, I summon the guard outside. “They head around to the front?” I demand, though I’ve already reached the steps. When I catch her, I’m going to pin her on the front lawn, then fuck her six ways to Sunday.
“That way, sir.” He points toward the casita.
I descend, taking two steps at a time, intent on hunting her down. Like an animal pursuing his prey. It’s not until I spy the blond and her friend disappearing inside the casita that the whiskey fog clears. Seconds later, the lights come on and confirm it.
No fucking way.
A few feet further, I stumble upon sparkly grey heel and a long blond wig in the grass.
I’m going to kill Zoey for putting Miss Innocent up to this.
My pulse races. Because I’m tempted, so goddamn tempted to do it. Take what she’s offering, consequences be damned.
End the spying.
End the teasing.
Teach her everything I like, and everything the little kinkster isn’t even aware she needs.
I kick the wig and send it sailing. “One. More. Time. And I’ll do it, no matter the consequences.”
CHAPTER33
ALESSIA
For three days, I avoided the main house by pretending I was ill. Fear mixed with outrage keeps me casita-bound. Zoey and I barely escaped the party, and I’ve been walking on eggshells in anticipation of Bastian calling me into his office and demanding an explanation.
And the angry side of me—the side fueled by Chiara Renselli’s late-afternoon departure two days ago—seeks my own explanations. Why her? Why not … me?
But no one cares what I do.
I’m invisible. Forgotten. Failing, in every way, shape, and form, in getting a private audience with Bastian, whether I want one or not.
This sunny afternoon, I’m inside his kitchen and baking pies. Baking is arguably more scientific than cooking. Every pie is different. Every one my own creation. A therapeutic task that keeps my mind off things I shouldn’t want. The secret to a perfect pie is the crust. I’ve carefully researched the best ingredients to ensure the crust is flaky and tender, and narrowed it down to one.
My favorite ingredient—vodka.
Busying myself, I forget my troubles. But on the fifth pie, I run out of liquor.
I bite my lip. Do I dare?
I pass Bastian’s office. His door is closed, yet I hear him talking inside. Heart racing, I keep moving until I reach the bar in the great room. Luckily a bottle of expensive vodka is inside the bar fridge. I’ll chill a second bottle from the shelf behind the bar while finishing the dough I’ve already begun.
Bottles curled into my chest, I trek back down the hallway, only to stop in surprise.
His office door is partially open.
