Page 139 of Dirty Mafia Torment
I tilt my head and smirk, because somewhere along the road, I decided to believe in him again. “I’ll think about it.”
He steps forward, pressing my back to the wall. “Maybe you need convincing?” His hips drive into me, forcing my body to slide up the wet tile.
“Maybe you’ll actually propose?” I shoot back, gripping him as he fills me deep.
I fantasized about a future with him for years, beginning at thirteen when, as a guest at his Rhode Island estate, I spied him across the room, a tall drink of lemonade—the kind mixed with bourbon. My girl crush turned into a slight teenage obsession. Even at a distance, I tried toknowhim.
Still, this complex man is hard to nail down.
I never knew Renzo the way I do now. His passionate, inner-geek side, the brutal devil beneath the pretty, mouthwatering package.
“You need a proposal?” He grunts, enjoying this, the sex fiend another side of him I can’t live without. “I’ll do right by you, babe. And when I ask again, your knees will buckle. I promise you that.”
“I won’t hold my breath.”
But I will … I am. I’ve always done so, for better or worse.
I arch and close my eyes.
And give myself over to him.
Bodies colliding, our hearts tangled tight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
FINA
At exactly oneo’clock the next afternoon, two men rush past my pool chair. Before I can react, they throw open the casita doors and vanish inside.
Minutes later, they return. One has a phone pressed to his ear.
Renzo left late last night, and all morning I’ve been feeding Sandro lies. That Renzo was sleeping in after a late night. That his twin abandoned me for the beach. That he was in the shower. Stalling, breathlessly anticipating the moment I’ll be caught.
The man himself appears at the kitchen door, strides across the pool deck without a word, and disappears into the casita.
Half-amused, half-terrified, I bite my lip, knowing I’m in deep shit.
“Where the fuck is he?” he roars, pure fury, as he charges toward me.
I swallow and shrug.
“You want to play games?” He jabs a button, shoves his phone at me. “Lie to him, then.”
My pulse spikes when Sebastiano Beneventi fills the screen. Even through the screen, he radiates a cold, deliberate danger that has me shrinking back. His voice is calm, almost soft, but every syllable drips with authority. “Renzo in Sicily?”
I feel like prey under a predator’s paw. It takes everything not to answer.
“Elia …”
“It’s Fina.”
His voice sharpens. “If you care about him, tell me his plans.”
“I don’t care about him.” It’s the biggest lie I’ve told today.
Sebastiano’s eyes narrow. I’ve no doubt, if he could, he’d reach through the screen and wrap his fingers around my throat.
“Stop protecting him,” Sandro snaps, then addresses his father. “I told him not to act alone, but he believes he can reason with Grassi.”
