Page 78 of Dirty Mafia Torment
Her friend chimes in. “Sembri così delizioso da volerlo mangiare.”
“Delicious enough to eat?” I pull them both in tighter. “Or violate?”
“Oh, he’s dangerous, this one,” she declares.
If they only knew.
This club is infamous for its back room—the Vault. A large area divided into a dozen private theaters tucked away behind heavy curtains and framed by oversized one-way windows. A voyeur’s dream and an exhibitionist’s delight.
Let’s give these bastards a night to remember.
I stand. “Show me the Vault.”
It takes time to cross the club with my half walk, half stagger. Once we pass security and are inside, I direct the two into a vacant room, while I hover outside in the large corridor, calculating how long it’ll take for the men pursuing me to appear.
I’m raising a half-empty bottle to my lips when they push inside, and I hit the button to the curtains with my elbow.
Game on.
The two women appear, and the mafiosi practically pissthemselves.
The corridor darkens as the women get busy. One of my ladies is dildo-ed up and the other wiggling her hips.
I can practically smell the sweat clinging beneath the men’s tailored suits, desire a sudden slap in the face. Tension in the corridor builds as the moans through the open vents get louder.
Light abruptly interrupts the show, angering everyone, even the mafiosi.
The Vault door is hastily shut and the interruption immediately forgotten.
But they’ve had a taste, and I’m growing bored with the game.
I drop the bottles at my feet, shove off the glass, and stagger toward the emergency exit. Outside, I take a quick piss—no helping it. I’m tucking myself away when the door to the club swings open.
We’ve had our fun.
Now it’s time to get down to business.
RENZO
I might have underestimated them.
They swarm me, pinning me against the building. All three mafiosi are built like tanks, but it’s the biggest who grabs my throat, lifts me onto my toes, and presses a cold blade to my ribs.
“Lorenzo Beneventi?” he demands.
“Renzo,” I slur, squinting up at him.
They exchange looks, disbelief followed by visible contempt. I deserve an Oscar for my bumbling act tonight, don’t I? The man with the knife mutters something that makes all three shake their heads. “Ha detto che era furbo.”
That gives me pause. Who the hell warned them I’m clever?
Another one snorts. “Sembra che le voci fossero vere. Selvaggio e fuori controllo. Alcuni dicono perfino che sia un codardo. Il Beneventidebole.”
Translation? I’m a dumb fuck. The weak Beneventi.
Wrong assumption, motherfucker.
I flash them a crooked smile to hide the sting, the fact that the rumors spread this far. These three poked the bear now, and are clueless to the danger they’re in.
