Page 8 of Mafia Betrayal

He ran a hand through his hair. The scent of strawberries lingered on his neck. He’d tried to hide it with an overwhelming heap of Axe cologne, but I still smelled it.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I had a big deal last night.”

My fingers, quite tensely, unbuttoned the last few buttons on his shirt. “Nothing that you couldn’t handle, I bet.” I forced myself to kiss his cheek and then I gazed down at my feet. “I’m, uh, going to shower.”

Before I slipped into the bathroom, Tommy peeked his head in.

“Your dad’s having a party tonight. I bought you a dress.” He opened the door wider and showed me a pretty royal-blue dress with a swooping neckline. Tommy sure did like his tits, huh? “We’ll leave at six.”

Daddy didn’t have any more work for him tonight? I rolled my eyes. Goody-two-shoes Tommy had to keep up his image of the perfect guy to marry the boss’s daughter and inherit the Capitelli millions, apparently.

His phone buzzed. Work calling again.

Once he left and shut my bedroom door, I frowned. I locked the bathroom door and started the water, letting the steam decorate the top of the mirror.

I stripped my clothes and put on the dress to see how it would fit. It was a few sizes too tight in the hip area and a size too loose in the bust. He’d probably gotten this dress for her. She would be able to fill it out perfectly, her boobs hanging out of it, basically screamingfuck mein it.

I tried to pull the bust tighter, tried pushing my breasts up, so the dress would look decent, so I would look decent. But it didn’t work. This dress hadn’t been made for someone like me. It had been designed for her.

What was wrong with me? Was I not enough for Tommy? Were my boobs not big enough? Was I not pretty enough? What did she have that I didn’t?

A tear slid down my cheek. I gazed at myself in the mirror and wiped away the tear. I was stronger than this. Tommy wouldn’t break me. The whore wouldn’t break me.

Once I spent almost an hour in the shower, I walked to my bedroom to see Tommy sprawled out on my bed, drooling on my pillow.

Stronzo.

Since he was sleeping oh-so peacefully, I woke him up. If he was making me stay up all night, thinking about all of the things he was doing to her, then he wasn’t going to get any sleep when he was here.

“Go take a shower. We need to leave soon.”

He grumbled and dragged himself into the bathroom. I walked into my closet and shut the door. Obviously, the dress he had bought formewas not going to work for tonight, so I had to throw something together.

I wanted to wear something that screamed,Look at me. Me. Me. Me. Me.

Not her.

I picked out a wine-colored dress that accentuated my ass—because if you got it, you’d better be flaunting it. That was how Mom had lived.

Once I accessorized, I sat down on one of the couches in my walk-in closet and reopened Google. The article from yesterday about Alessandro was still up, so I decided to do a little more digging. I wanted something that I could use against him so he would have to give me another chance. He had secrets. Everyone in the family did.

The journalist’s name was Greta Morelli. If she knew something—anything—it was worth trying to find her even if she didn’t speak English. Within moments, I found her email address and her work phone number.

The phone rang three times before someone answered.

“Ciao. La Sicilia,” a man said.

“Hello.”

“Un Americano. Un momento.”

There was some fumbling on the line and then a woman spoke. “Hello. How may I help you?”

“Hello,” I said. “May I speak to Greta Morelli?”

She was quiet for a few moments.

“You have the wrong paper,” she said quickly.

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