Page 95 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
In on the lie, I do my best to remain passive.
Carmine completely misses the cue. “Tough, like your old man.”
So does his younger look-alike. “He still alive? You must be angry?”
Alessandro sips his wine and forces everyone to wait on his response. I brace myself, anticipating the worst.
“Alive?” Alessandro shrugs. “Fuck yeah. Only a stupid stranzo would kill his best man for a small indiscretion.” He makes eye contact with all three men. “As for angry? Enough to kill the next fucker who brings it up.”
The old man pales.
The other two study the menu.
And Alessandro locks eyes on me.
Proud, to a fault.
Arrogance, in spades.
Borderline sadistic.
Possessing a power to hurt me that goes far beyond my darkest desires or messed-up mind.
I look away, knowing it’s safer to hate him.
I take in the harbor, and the small yacht anchored below, wrapped up so prettily and at the mercy of the tide, yet with nowhere to go.
“Your family’s hunting for Conti?”
“What’s the word on the street?”
“Just that he angered the Beneventi capo.” Carmine grunts. “After your old man chopped Benny Manocchio into fish bait, che palle.”
Alessandro nods. “That’s right.”
I stifle my gasp. Violence is as common as air for these mafiosi. I’ve witnessed it, firsthand, haven’t I? It’s a miracle I’m alive, considering.
“Spread the word. A million euros to anyone who has information on Conti.”
The men look startled.
“And they contact me directly, capisci?”
Euros light up in their eyes. Money’s a great motivator.
Satisfied, Alessandro reclines in his chair, and his attention shifts back to me.
I swiftly look elsewhere, angry at him yet anxiously wondering when he’ll activate the vibrator. It’s wrong, so wrong to yearn for such a thing. To give him power over my pleasure and pain, especially with an audience who might notice my discomfort.
A waiter appears with plates of food for the table. No one comments on how Alessandro preordered, though idleconversation continues while we eat. I tune them out and relax enough to eat my first meal out in Italy.
I’m spiraling fettuccine around my fork when Alessandro places a hand on my arm, and then leans in. “You’re doing it wrong,” he murmurs. My skin pricks with awareness at his proximity. I’m offered a spoon before his big hand clamps down on my other hand. “The proper way is to wind the fork against a spoon. Like this.” He gently turns my hand while pushing fettuccine into the spoon and creating a neat, bite-size nest.
“Good girl,” he softly praises me.
Twice today, he’s done so. With equally devastating effect. Because my fork hand is shaking so hard, I’m afraid to raise it to my mouth.
The men notice I’m flustered. The weight of their regard heavy—though Alessandro could care less.
