Page 45 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
And when I needed it most, when I thought the salt in the air and sun on my face might soothe my anger, I see her.
On the adjacent balcony.
Sunbathing nude, her beautiful breasts tan from the sun.
On a vacation in motherfucking paradise.
What. The. Fuck?
I charge inside and then unleash a week of pent-up rage. A lamp, the television, a small armoire, they all take the brunt. By the time I’m done, my lips are busted and ribs are protesting.
I draw in a deep breath. “Tommaso!”
His arrival takes fucking forever. He limps in, takes stock of my bedroom, then turns to leave.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I could say the same,” he mutters.
“Do I look like I’m running an Airbnb?” I place a hand on the wall as the room sways. “Why isn’t her ass locked in the cellar?”
“You could barely stand the day we arrived, yet you spoon-fed her tea and cleaned the blood off her body. Why would I lock her in the dungeon?”
His words hit me like a blow. It feels like being waterboarded—cloth over my face, gallons of water pouring down, just enough to feel the suffocation. I was utterly out of it when we got to the villa, lost in a familiar addiction—her. My fingers grip the nearest object, an ornate wall sconce the interior designer insisted on. With a savage yank, I wrench it from the wall and throw it, shattering it against the opposite side.
Tommaso ducks, narrowly avoiding the debris.
“She can spend her vacation in hell.”
It takes him far too long to respond. “Broken lock.”
“What?” I growl.
“The cell door isn’t operable.”
I glare at him. “Well, call a goddamn locksmith.”
“Sandro … as your friend…”
“Don’t play the friend card, asshole. What the hell, man? You put her in the guest room next to mine? If you think my father wiped your clock clean…”
He stares at me with that look he gets when he’s determined to dig in. My vision blurs, and I’m faced with two obstinate assholes. “Go on,” I grunt. “Say it.”
“She seemed eager to reconnect with you, not anxious or guilty. Let me interview her, just in case we’re wrong…”
“She worked for Ciro. Lived in his building.”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “And…”
“And what?”
He hesitates. “She moved in with him after the explosion.”
The whitewashed room turns bloodred. “What?”
“If you’d let me run a background check on your girl earlier…”
I raise a hand to cut him off. Every moment leading up to the ambush replays in my mind—her empty building, the broken lock she wouldn’t fix, her sweet, submissive demeanor. I was blind and predictable. But even with bloodshot eyes, I see more clearly now. My girl—a Broadway-worthy actress. “Find a locksmith today.”
