Page 43 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
The door slams behind her.
I return inside to the table. Entertaining myself by tearing bread crust off a slice, sprinkling water on it, then rolling it into a ball to eat.
When I was young, every spring my mother and I’d feed ducks in a park overlooking the Muskingum and Ohio Rivers.We’d dampen bread with water, and then make small dough balls to toss to the less aggressive ducks on the outskirts of the paddling.
My mom was wonderful like that, always kind and fair, always living in the present, always fond of family traditions and openly expressing her love.
Do I even know what love means anymore? Every time I get close to it, it’s like reaching for a fallen star. My father. Emily. Al. If only I had more time with each of them.
Voices in Italian float through the French doors, filling the quiet with energy. Do they know I’m here? I don’t rush to the balcony or call out—I’d rather remain unnoticed. Being forgotten isn’t the worst fate.
My gaze settles on the stale bread. Not entirely forgotten, right?Be thankful you’re still breathing, Riley. Because, despite the idiom, no one ever truly dies of boredom.
SANDRO
They say respect is earned.
But so is disgrace. Like the pain meds I’m on, it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
I was manipulated.
I wasbetrayed.
Humiliation pulses like lava through my bloodstream. Except no amount of drugs will halt the rage from flowing freely.
Mercilessly.
“Signor Beneventi, si prega di mangiare,” a nurse pleads, waving a fork full of food in front of my face. A pretty brunette with puffy red lips. She’s doing her job, and I’m heavily sedatedon Sebastiano Beneventi’s orders. But she’s got a better chance at my obedience if she first bends over the hospital bed so I can stuff her mouth full of dick. Except an expert blow and poor hospital food are low on my priority list.
At the top of the list is Conti’s tortured body. By chain saw? Cement truck? Or do I slowly, methodically slice off small body parts—pinkies, toes, dick—and force him to swallow them whole?
“Da quanti giorni sono qui?” I demand. How many days have I been incapacitated while Conti remains alive?
“Tre giorni. Ma Don Beneventi insiste che lei rimanga ricoverato per una settimana.”
Three days?
Fuck.
I struggle to sit up. My old man insisted I accept treatment, and I obeyed. “Was Tommaso Manella admitted?” I ask in English, Italian taking too much effort right now.
“Sì, signor Beneventi.”
“Toss his ass in a wheelchair and wheel him in here.”
She grins playfully. “If you’ll eat just a little…” Her expression changes as my glare cuts her to pieces. I’m seconds from strangling the sweet smiles from her body. But I save that pleasure for someone more deserving.
The nurse drops the fork and plate, and bolts from the hospital room.
I wait, until minutes later Tommaso is pushed in. A male nurse wheels his chair beside my bed, and then flees the room.
“You look like hell,” he says as a greeting.
A quick scan confirms my father put a beating on him. The knowledge only adds to my humiliation. He’s in a freaking wheelchair because of my shitty judgment. “You survived.”
He shrugs. “Don Beneventi was pretty pissed off.”
“What did you talk about?” I press on, cold, unsympathetic, and straight to the point. We don’t have time for cuddles and fucking hugs.
