Page 115 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
I’m about to retrace my steps when the window across the room is flung open. I freeze, then watch a girl a few years younger than me hoist herself over the frame and inside. Her dress slides up, and I immediately look away. Because she’s not wearing underwear.
“Oh, shit,” she exclaims. “You frightened the hell out of me.”
I turn back toward her as she closes the window behind her. Her black hair is wild, her cheeks flushed, and if I’m not mistaken, she has a nearly identical hickey on her neck. I’m too stunned to respond.
“Please tell me I didn’t miss lunch?”
I blink. “No.”
“Thank you, sweet Jesus.” She strides across the room. “That your car outside?”
“My…” Boyfriend? Lover? Kidnapper?
“Let me guess. Dante’s fratello rented it?”
I recognize the word fratello, as well as the name associated with it—Dante. But don’t correct her, not that she’s giving me the opportunity, as I track her quick progress across the floor.
“Do me a favor, girl to girl. Don’t share that you saw me.”
“My lips are sealed,” I reply. What would I say, anyway? That I encountered a barely dressed wild child with a hickey on her neck sneaking into the farmhouse through a window?
“See you in a few minutes.”
I hurry back down the hallway and reenter the dining room.
Both men are standing, politely waiting for me.
Alessandro pulls out my chair, and I sit.
They follow suit.
A server comes to pour us wine. “White,” Don Gallo says. “To complement the dishes.”
The aroma of pistachios fills the air. It takes me a moment to realize every dish on the table includes them, even the pasta.
“Catania specials,” the proud man informs us. It’s hard to believe a man this enthusiastic about farming is a mafioso.
We wait, and although no explanation is offered, I’m well aware who is late to lunch.
She comes racing in a few minutes later with a flurry of rapid Italian excuses. “Mi scuso, padre. Mi sono addormentato nella mia stanza e ho perso la cognizione del tempo. Spero di non averfatto aspettare troppo i tuoi ospiti?” She abruptly stops, her eyes sweeping over Alessandro. She recovers, and then offers him a polite nod, the picture of innocence in her somber, high-collared dress more fitting for winter than the dead heat of summer. “Don Beneventi.”
“Alessandro,” he corrects. “And you must be Luna Cecilia Gallo?”
I watch her closely as she looks confused and turns to her father for help. Curious how she doesn’t recognize her own name, especially since Alessandro pronounced it in Italian.
“Failed her English classes, I’m sorry to admit. My principessa only speaks Italian.”
My lips part. What?
The wild child’s eyes meet mine, almost daring me to rat her out.
Except I don’t. I’ve my own worries to contend with without causing more trouble by ruining her fun. With Dante? I’d bet ten sacks of pistachios I’m right.
Lunch begins, and the men talk business in Italian.
Not that I’m completely ignored, not with the principessa’s curious glances. Not when Alessandro places his palm on my lap, his fingers dangling precariously close to my already sensitive nerves.
“Cos’è questa storia che Dante Lucchese ha acquistato il terreno accanto al tuo?” Alessandro asks. I catch Dante Lucchese’s name, but so does Luna as she sits up a little straighter in her chair.
