Page 88 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
“Fuck,” I mutter.
My construction manager looks startled. “Something wrong, sir? I’ll stop construction—”
“Jet lag, is all.”And a fucked-up psyche I won’t dwell long enough on to fix.
He nods, relieved. “Will you be returning to Italy soon?”
Family man or not, I’d be an idiot to fully trust him. “If we ever get this motherfucking tour over with.”
“Oh,” he stutters. “Well, then … over in this area…” He proceeds to describe in great detail every step in the progress we’ve made.
While I take half-assed notes to share with my father.
While the honest answer to his question rests on the tip of my tongue.
Not soon enough.
RILEY
Feminine laughter filtersinto the kitchen from the pool deck. I wipe my hands on a towel as the flock of brazen brunettes surrounds a dark-haired man by the bar.
I’m a prisoner here. Unlike them, who leave or stay at will. Unlike Alessandro, who can disappear without warning or explanation.
While the monster’s away, the hornets will play.
And I want no part of it.
I recognize Tommaso, as he’s feet taller than them. One woman tugs his arm as they shamelessly laugh and flirt.
Even from the door, I can see her red lips pout. Yet he refuses to budge.
Sandro won’t like this.
Tommaso ushers them away, probably thinking the same.
I step into the pantry, dodging them as they parade inside.
It’s the man outside I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak to.
Tommaso’s behind the bar and double-fisting vodka shots when I reach him; an empty glass is in his right hand and a full one raised to his lips in the other. A half-empty vodka bottle sweats on the bar in the summer air.
I slide into a bar seat, and he freezes. “You got to be shitting me,” he mutters. “Can’t a man find some peace around here?”
“Alessandro won’t appreciate that they flirt with you.”
His wrist flicks and he shoots back the vodka, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. A bit uncouth, but he is a big brute with huge hands and a neck the size of my thigh. And I confused him for an Uber driver? “Boss doesn’t give two shits what they do,” he finally says.
“He’s possessive,” I insist, questioning how well he actually knows his boss. Even I understand playing nice with other men in the same sandbox is not Alessandro’s forte.
Tommaso gaze skims over me. “Only about important things.”
“Like …?”
He flips both shot glasses upside down on the bar, then cocks an eyebrow at me. “What he won’t like is this. So get yourself gone.”
“I waited for him in his office for over an hour.” My heart jumping every time footsteps approached, only to sink with disappointment as they passed by. I square myself on the barstool. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”
He shoots me a hard look.
