Page 66 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Frustration surges, raw and aching. Followed by truth. If I’m truly committed to starting over, the past needs to stay in the past. I was slightly obsessed over one man for far too long. He has no right to be in my mind or heart. I never want to see him again.
And now, you never will.
I spin back toward my dance partner, driving all thoughts of him aside.
Only to find my dance partner locking lips with Bianca.
What the hell?
Camilla shoves between me and them, her voice cutting through the music.
“Come on. Fina. Bathroom!” Hand on my elbow, she drags me across the dance floor, then down a hallway to a bathroom. We wait our turn to enter, then once we do, Camilla locks the door behind us.
“Sorry about Bianca,” Camilla says, now that we’re alone.
For a busy club, the restroom is spotless. As I reapply lip gloss, I notice even the mirror’s streak-free.
“You were vibing with him first.”
She’s more upset than I am.
I shrug. “He’s just a stupid boy.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“I’m not the jealous type, especially not over eye-candy I just barely met.”
“That’s what Bianca was about.” Camilla side-eyes me. “She was trying to make Dante jealous.”
I stiffen. “He’s here?”
“With another woman.”
Well, hell with that. “Come on,” I say. “We should rescue her before she does something crazy.”
We retrace our steps down the hall, heading back to the dance floor.
Bianca is nowhere to be seen.
“Upstairs.” Camilla points to a balcony, and I follow her to the stairs in the corner and blocked by security.
The mafioso asks for our names.
“Camilla,” she offers before I can stop her.
He checks his list.
It’s obvious my friend’s never been to a VIP room before. What name will get us in? What name carries enough weight to make him step aside?
“Beneventi,” I say, forcing the word through clenched teeth.
He waves us through without even looking down.
Camilla throws me a quick look, which I pretend not to see. Still, a cold prickle crawls over my skin because that was too easy.
We climb the stairs and step onto the balcony overlooking the dance floor. Everything is tastefully done. Burgundy curtains soften the industrial beams holding the loft in place. Plush sofas form intimate circles around low tables, grouped strategically for maximum privacy. The space feels expensive and deliberate. Dante has exquisite taste.
“Not crowded, like we figured,” I say, eyes sweeping the room.
