Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

RILEY

“ Alessandro, stay. ”

Sunlight warms my face as imagined words wind through my subconscious. My eyelids are heavy, and it takes my full concentration to open them. Body aches and parched throat register next, but the memories, like a train horn breaking through the fog, have me scrambling into a seated position.

Holy hell.

It all comes back at once. Ciro’s murder. The gun crashing against my head. My mafiosi kidnappers. A prick in the arm. A plane ride.

Applesauce.

I’m in an unfamiliar room, in a stranger’s bed, naked and disoriented. Sore arm, sore neck and throat … from his fingers …

I frown.

A shower?

My eyes grow wide, and I dip my hand between my thighs. Not tender or swollen—no one abused me while I was drugged.

My therapist used to make me write lists, a repertoire of positive images to draw from during the darker days. At first I found comfort in it, making list after list, even enjoying the process. But with the constant attention—reporters swarming my grandparents’ lawn, Mema’s friends with their baked casseroles and half-baked smiles—those darks days turned into a waking nightmare. And when the news broke that my father was engaged to that monster—a fact he neglected telling me, which I had to learn from the TV—I burned every last one of the lists.

I’ve subconsciously created a new list, one completely centered around him, haven’t I? Memories of our shower sex ranking among the best? A way to cope with witnessing a murder. To deal with the fact I’ve been kidnapped and possibly trafficked … though my prison isn’t what you’d expect.

Everything in the bedroom is white: the duvet and sheets, the walls and furniture, the crisscrossed beams overhead, even the painted hardwood floor. A table with two chairs sits against a wall, set for dining. My stomach rumbles as the smell of bacon wafts through the air.

I ignore my hunger pangs as I spot the French doors, and then scramble from the bed, dragging the sheet with me. I step onto a small black wrought iron balcony, one of three extending from the sprawling whitewashed villa perched majestically on a mountainside cliff. I stand here, mesmerized, while transported to another world.

An endless sapphire blue sea stretches out before me, with sailboats and yachts scattered across the water like brushstrokes on an impressionist canvas. The serene water, salty breeze, and sunshine offer a welcoming embrace, and for the briefest moment, I forget why I’m here.

Below to my left lies an Olympic-sized pool surrounded by white loungers. A Tiki-style bar with tall stools sits poolside, flanked by striped white and blue canopies and matching daybeds. To the far right, a casita stands as a miniature replica of the villa itself.

Shouting echoes from the opposite direction. Across several football fields and too far for a discreet call for help, a group of teenagers has gathered on a narrow cliff jutting over the sea. One by one, they leap off the edge, vanishing from sight. My heart pounds as I lean forward, only finding relief when I spot the boys minutes later, swimming toward a small beach.

So carefree. So free .

Life can be so beautifully cruel, can’t it?

The villa is unlike any place I’ve ever visited, and I’ve only glimpsed the room and the view. It’s the kind of place you bookmark on Vrbo and fantasize about, the sort of dream destination a TikTok travel influencer would kill to showcase.

Italy—must be. My kidnappers spoke Italian.

Far, far away from Marietta.

Far away from anyone who gives two figs about me.

Loud banging causes me to spin and tighten the bedsheet around me. I stare into the room at the door, waiting for Scarface or another mafioso to charge inside.

Several minutes pass, and nothing.

My stomach protests, and my eyes are drawn to the table. Lord, is that a teapot? If they wanted me dead, they wouldn’t serve me tea in fine china.

So, what’s the plan, Riley? What will you do?

Tea first.

Then bacon.

Followed by whatever else waits for me.

“Puttana.”

A dark-haired woman in a white uniform with an exceptionally short skirt glares at me from between the French doors. She’s beautiful, with a tight, tucked waist and curves men undoubtedly drool over, though her hostile expression ruins the effect.

It’s been three days, and different women have been bringing food to the room. They’re all exceptionally gorgeous, with dark hair and wide almond-brown eyes, wearing matching white uniforms with skirts so short, I get an eyeful when they bend over.

One thing more they have in common? They hate me.

At least it’s clear who keeps pounding on my door.

This morning’s brunette jabs her finger toward the tray on the table. “Stai zitta e fai colazione.”

If I could bottle her undisguised loathing and sell it, I could buy an expensive yacht like the kind I’ve spent days watching and sail away. Most of my time is spent in a chair I dragged outside, sunning myself while contemplating life.

And death.

“Please. Telefono.” I gesture to my ear like I’m making a call. Repeating the request I’ve asked the others.

She mimics the gesture, flashing me the finger as she does so. “Non essere patetica!”

Don’t these women get I’m a prisoner?

The bedsheet slips, and her gaze flicks over me. What she sees only infuriates her further. “Non sei proprio il suo tipo, sai?”

“I don’t understand.”

She throws her hands up and charges off, kicking the fluffy white throw rug on her way out of the room.

The door slams behind her.

I return inside to the table. Entertaining myself by tearing bread crust off a slice, sprinkling water on it, then rolling it into a ball to eat.

When I was young, every spring my mother and I’d feed ducks in a park overlooking the Muskingum and Ohio Rivers. We’d dampen bread with water, and then make small dough balls to toss to the less aggressive ducks on the outskirts of the paddling.

My mom was wonderful like that, always kind and fair, always living in the present, always fond of family traditions and openly expressing her love.

Do I even know what love means anymore? Every time I get close to it, it’s like reaching for a fallen star. My father. Emily. Al. If only I had more time with each of them.

Voices in Italian float through the French doors, filling the quiet with energy. Do they know I’m here? I don’t rush to the balcony or call out—I’d rather remain unnoticed. Being forgotten isn’t the worst fate.

My gaze settles on the stale bread. Not entirely forgotten, right? Be thankful you’re still breathing, Riley. Because, despite the idiom, no one ever truly dies of boredom.

SANDRO

They say respect is earned.

But so is disgrace. Like the pain meds I’m on, it’s a bitter pill to swallow.

I was manipulated.

I was betrayed .

Humiliation pulses like lava through my bloodstream. Except no amount of drugs will halt the rage from flowing freely.

Mercilessly.

“Signor Beneventi, si prega di mangiare,” a nurse pleads, waving a fork full of food in front of my face. A pretty brunette with puffy red lips. She’s doing her job, and I’m heavily sedated on Sebastiano Beneventi’s orders. But she’s got a better chance at my obedience if she first bends over the hospital bed so I can stuff her mouth full of dick. Except an expert blow and poor hospital food are low on my priority list.

At the top of the list is Conti’s tortured body. By chain saw? Cement truck? Or do I slowly, methodically slice off small body parts—pinkies, toes, dick—and force him to swallow them whole?

“Da quanti giorni sono qui?” I demand. How many days have I been incapacitated while Conti remains alive?

“Tre giorni. Ma Don Beneventi insiste che lei rimanga ricoverato per una settimana.”

Three days?

Fuck.

I struggle to sit up. My old man insisted I accept treatment, and I obeyed. “Was Tommaso Manella admitted?” I ask in English, Italian taking too much effort right now.

“Sì, signor Beneventi.”

“Toss his ass in a wheelchair and wheel him in here.”

She grins playfully. “If you’ll eat just a little…” Her expression changes as my glare cuts her to pieces. I’m seconds from strangling the sweet smiles from her body. But I save that pleasure for someone more deserving.

The nurse drops the fork and plate, and bolts from the hospital room.

I wait, until minutes later Tommaso is pushed in. A male nurse wheels his chair beside my bed, and then flees the room.

“You look like hell,” he says as a greeting.

A quick scan confirms my father put a beating on him. The knowledge only adds to my humiliation. He’s in a freaking wheelchair because of my shitty judgment. “You survived.”

He shrugs. “Don Beneventi was pretty pissed off.”

“What did you talk about?” I press on, cold, unsympathetic, and straight to the point. We don’t have time for cuddles and fucking hugs.

“Conti. He’s got his best men on the hunt.”

“Stateside, or elsewhere?” I ask, curious if my father has a lead to his whereabouts.

“The South; Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi. Places Conti has connections.” He stretches his legs and folds his hands on his lap, as if he were in a conference room chair instead of wheelchair bound. “And before you ask, I kept my trap shut. No mention of Ciro Cigorelli. Not a single thing said about Riley.”

I smash my fist on the standing tray beside the bed and upend it. “Don’t say her goddamn name.”

He holds up his hands. “Jesus. Fine. We’ll decide later when you want me to interrogate her.”

“Or kill her.”

His expression pinches like he has more to say.

But, like her miserable, lying life, this conversation is over.

“Renzo,” I say. “Send men to Rome to see if they can learn anything about where he might be hiding.” Because I’ll personally drag his ass out of hiding, kick it, and then sort him out. I promised, and I won’t disappoint my father again. “My guess is he’s holed up in some underground club. They need to be discreet, or he’ll disappear.”

“Got it.” He searches my expression. But whatever softness may have existed is gone. “Anything else?”

“Our time here is done.”