Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

SANDRO

The second he enters my office, Tommaso’s attention swings from my desk to where I’m sitting on the sofa. “Why are you working there?”

“Stop with the inquisition and take a seat.” I gesture to a nearby chair. My concentration is shit, my mind on things it shouldn’t dwell on. I toss my phone onto the cushion. “You were talking to the men by the pool for a long time. You have updates?”

“The men located Renzo in Rome.”

That earns my full attention. “Where did you put him?”

Tommaso grimaces. It’s a reaction Renzo frequently inspires.

“Don’t tell me he escaped?” I thunder.

“Like goddamn Houdini on speed.” He sighs. “The men feared telling you, but then you were busy—”

I cut him off, not giving credence to the comment. My villa, my rules. And if playing with my fuckdoll in the goddamn mid-morning’s a problem, my men—even Tommaso—can fuck off.

Wisely, Tommaso drops the subject. “But your brother left you a message.”

“Like hell he did.”

He holds out his hand. Scowling, I take the folded napkin from him. “Let me guess, the message is two letters, F and U .”

“Don’t know, Sandro.” Tommaso shakes his head. “He sealed the damn thing with chewing gum.”

My fist tightens around the napkin. “Yet he had time to do this and escape?”

“He locked our soldiers inside a kinky sex dungeon, and then taunted them from a freaking watch tower above. High as hell, half-naked with no shoes, and Renzo still outsmarted them.” Tommaso’s tone reeks of incredulousness, but I’m not the slightest bit surprised. Renzo lives life like a game, in which he’s the chess master.

While I now become the Beneventi heir, filling in for him.

While I deal in reality.

While my life is completely fucked.

Tommaso nods at my hand. “You keep squishing that note, and you won’t be able to read it.”

I mutter a curse, and then painstakingly unwrap my twin’s present. Except the gum sticks tight, and finally all that’s decipherable is one word written in bubblegum pink lipstick.

Sicily.

I hand the napkin to Tommaso. “Must be about Dante.” It’s a logical conclusion. Except nothing about my brother inspires logic. Like my father said days ago, “ Who the fuck’s in Sicily? ” “Dante, and Pietro Gallo…”

Tommaso leans forward like he’s about to share a secret. “Ready for this? Dante’s fucking around with his daughter behind his back.”

I’ve a love/hate relationship with Dante Lucchese, my godfather’s only son and my father’s long-time protégé. He’s a cross between James Bond—with his good looks, charm, and revolving door of women—and Tony Soprano—with a hot temper, crazy-ass psychosis, and passion for violence. I saw him take a butcher knife to some lying stranzo then, as the man’s guts spilled onto the floor, pluck the cigarette he’d given the man from his lips and, cool as can be, smoke it. An absolute psycho wrapped in movie-star-themed paper.

And I love him for it.

What I hate is how he assumes Renzo and I are his clean-up crew. Ever pick up a guy’s intestines? Pure grunt work—like Dante forgets we’re equals. That he and I will lead our famiglie one day.

My lips curl. “Hollywood’s asking for drama.”

Tommaso eyeballs me, surprised.

“What?” I demand.

“You cracked a joke.”

I scowl. “And?”

He thinks twice about answering, and instead turns the discussion back to Dante. “Want to hear the best part?”

Something in his tone says he can’t wait to tell me. “No,” I fuck with him. “Heard enough.”

“She’s seventeen.”

That's no big deal in Italy if she’s consenting. What’s mind-blowing is that Dante’s kink has always been older women.

“I’ve developed a taste for pistachios.” I grin. A trip to Sicily to visit Pietro Gallo? Can’t hurt, right? “Let’s investigate further before sharing anything with my father.”

Tommaso stares at me with a strange look.

“What now?”

“You’re fucking smiling.”

I roll my eyes. “Your point?”

“I’ve not seen you like this for months. You must be feeling better.”

He arches an eyebrow, pushing my buttons. But I’m not discussing decisions I made while he was gone. Fuck, I don’t even ask him if Riley’s lame friend had anything more to say about her before he warned her old-fashioned style—a few cuts here and there, a reminder to keep her trap shut—and set her free. The truth won’t change this arrangement. I’ve got Riley where I want her, and I’m keeping her. Until you grow bored.

Until your father’s own neat arrangement requires you let her go.

The thought kills any lingering humor, as does my next question. “Any updates on Conti?”

“All bank accounts have been cleared. No trace of Conti. He must be using cash only.”

“Crafty fuckhead.” My eyes drift to my desk, and I picture her sprawled out across it. I need a stiff drink, and a housemaid to suck me off so fucking good, I’ll forget her.

“The doctor change your meds?”

“No, why?” I ask.

“No cursing? No threats? Less evil bastard. You seem lighter .”

Jesus Christ. I’m tempted to punch his face, then ask him if that felt lighter. Whatever bullshit he’s thinking, he’s wrong. “Listen, asshole.” I roll to my feet, conversation over. “Find Conti, and the evil bastard you think you know will seem like an angel.”

RILEY

His, to order about.

His, to play with, on his time and at his beck and call.

His, to sit on a sofa in his office quietly, with my breasts on display while I watch him work.

“Market was down yesterday.” Alessandro taps the blunt end of a pen on a paper on his desk. “Good time to purchase gold before it rises.”

He listens intently, and then nods. “Yes, sir .”

Despite how the last word is layered in sarcasm, the honorific signifies respect. He must be on the phone with his father, Sebastiano Beneventi.

I tilt my head, regarding him. Tense shoulders. Tight expression. The tap, tap, tap of the pen because he can’t stop moving. He’s wound tight, and I feel for him. It’s obvious not only does he respect his father, but he’s also hungry to please him. The revelation’s startling. My perception of him was based on his actions mixed with a handful of conversations. I hardly knew him in New York, and I know less as his captive. Though today, I’m seeing a different side to him. The dutiful and somewhat reluctant son to an important mafioso capo.

Our eyes meet, and his pen halts.

He tosses it aside, then turns away.

Why demand I sit here if he doesn’t like me eavesdropping?

I curl my legs beneath me on the cushion, forcing my attention elsewhere. Unfortunately, it drifts to thoughts of my father and our dynamic when I was a little girl.

One Christmas, my parents bought me a plastic four-wheeler. Every day, I’d wait on the corner for him to return from work. As soon as I saw his car turn onto our block, I’d pedal as fast as I could to race him home. We had a front stoop with concrete steps, and I’d ride down the sidewalk at full speed until the wheel crashed into the stoop, stopping me. I did it so many times I wore out the front wheel. We were close. I was loved and protected.

Until he met her.

An engagement’s supposed to be a happy occasion. What kind of man hides news like that, especially from a loved one?

I frown. Is this the festering wound I keep digging at? Is this why I can forgive him for poor judgement yet hang on to his lie by omission?

I quickly brush aside a random tear before Alessandro notices. My father and I are both victims of monsters. Except mine likes to keep me on hand, caged, bare-breasted, and at his command.

“Less Frankenstein,” he cuts in.

I stare at him, wide-eyed—it’s almost as if he’s read my thoughts.

“More Conor McGregor after a winning fight.” He pauses to listen, before continuing, “Yeah, I understand. Show my face around New York so the vultures can confirm I’m alive and well.”

New York—is he leaving?

“Say hello to her?”

My head snaps up at his utterly disgusted tone. His expression’s laced with anger. Whoever she is, he wants no part of her. “Hard pass.”

The bite of his words are deadly. I don’t envy the woman being discussed.

“Fucking hell. Understood.”

The phone hits the desk, and he leans back with an annoyed exhale.

I don’t know why I comment, but I do. “Your father demands a lot from you?”

He answers me, and I’m just as baffled that he would. “The motherfucking world.”

“Is it difficult being a mafia boss’s son?”

“It’s goddamn la dolce vita when you’re not the heir.”

I do my best not to react. Alessandro’s a total control freak. Relinquishing power to anyone, even his father, must frustrate him terribly.

Curious, I push harder, though with a soft, gentle voice. “What would your life be like if you weren’t the Beneventi heir?”

“ Mine. ” He shoots me a look filled with such blistering intensity, I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning. Does he mean his life would be his? Or does he mean … I’m his ? Like in his life … in his future?

But that can’t be right. He hates me.

Our eyes lock and hold, and something flashes across his expression. A raw, unguarded vulnerability that makes my heart stop short. Because it reminds me of the morning I nearly died twice—first in his tender arms, and then in a cloud of dust. Why did he keep returning? Why not tell me we were over when I begged him to?

Seconds turn into a minute before a cold steel wall slams back into place.

“How the fuck are you still alive?”

I flinch at his harsh question.

“Six feet under and buried in cement, like your boss. That’s where you should be.”

Lord. He didn’t .

“Ciro’s a permanent part of my new casino. A fitting death for that asshole, don’t you think?”

I rise to my feet.

“Sit your ass back down.”

Lord, he’s vicious. Vengeful and cruel. I sit down and press my lips together, struggling not to respond.

“Sit there, with your tits out and lips closed. That’s your job. Not to pry into my life and fucking psychoanalyze me.”

There’s no winning when he’s like this. He opened up, and I snuck in, and then struck a nerve. Now he’s hell-bent on annihilating the tiniest lingering thread that binds us. Like I’m an intolerable weakness that just keeps hanging on.

“I’ve done nothing wrong.”

He glares. “Tell me. How much does a gram of coke run?”

“Are you insane?” I gasp. “How would I know that?”

“Ballpark figure. Ten dollars? A thousand?”

“The person who’d know this answer,” I sputter, “is buried six feet under.”

That seems to appease him and his off-the-cuff questions.

“Come here.”

I hesitate, but then do as he bids and walk over to his desk.

He pats the desk before him. “Up.”

My eyebrows rise.

Hands on my hips, he hoists me onto his desk. My breasts bounce from landing so hard. Traitors, offering him a reward he doesn’t deserve.

Predictably, his eyes track the movement. “Tempting.”

I hide my displeasure while I wait him out.

“Go on. Tell me I’m an asshole.”

I frown, wondering if I’m hearing him correctly.

“Now’s your chance. Alessandro, you’re a fucking asshole.”

I part my lips, except the words won’t come out. My silence fills the room like a thundercloud. There are so many names I could call him. But I don’t—can’t. Because even though he believes I betrayed him, I know otherwise. And one day, he’ll hopefully recognize the truth. For now, I’ll help him along the way.

“For Christ’s sake,” he exclaims, hating the silence. “Say something.”

“I loved you once.”

Oh. My. God. Of all the things to say, why blurt that? Helping him along the way doesn’t mean throwing it all out there. I just placed my heart in one of his hands and a knife in the other.

He recoils like I sucker punched him.

Strike one, Alessandro.

Strike two, Riley.

His brows pinch. So distrustful. So ready to believe I’m someone other than a one-night stand turned into an obsession.

“What the fuck?” he mutters. Fuck is his answer to everything . It’s all we did in New York. Desperately. Recklessly, like the solution to life’s problems could be found in my submission. I should have been asking questions. He should have told me his name.

He’s deep in thought and impossible to read, as my declaration devours the oxygen in the room until I’m choking for air. His silence is unbearable as it’s now my turn waiting for him to speak.

The tiniest shake of his head breaks the spell. “Mouth or finger?”

“What?”

He slides his chair forward, hooks his arms beneath my knees, and tugs me forward. “Your choice, Riley. Mouth or finger?”

I blink at him. My name. He used my name.

Placing his forearms on my inner thighs, he parts my legs. “Answer me.”

“You’ll lick my …”

“Mouth it is.”

This is how he apologizes?

Yes, I think. His actions speak louder than his words ever will.

“Both,” I say in a rush.

“Both,” he repeats, an evil gleam in his blue eyes. “Greedy girl.”

Not my greedy girl—he omitted the pronoun and changed a pet name.

“Now beg me for it.”

“Lick me.” My voice trembles.

“Louder. So my men can hear your sweet pleas.”

Confident only he will hear me—because he’s sick and twisted, but possessive as hell—I obey. “Lick me, please.”

“Good girl. Now beg me to sink a finger in your ass while I do it.”

Oh. My. God.

My eyes widen, and his grow impossibly dark. He threatened to break me in months ago. Dirty promises whispered in the heat of the moment. How he’d love watching me struggle. How much he gets off on my submission. But he’s six three, muscled, and with a massive appendage. He barely fits in my pussy, so how am I supposed to take him in my backside?

A bead of sweat forms on my brow. Just a finger. “Will it hurt?”

He licks his lips.

Oh, hell. It’ll hurt a lot.

“Eyes on me, capisci?”

I nod.

“And what happens if you look away, baby?”

My heart stills. He called me baby . “I never do,” I whisper. “Or you’ll spank me.” A rush of lust hits me hard. Combined with baby , my entire body is a bundle of need.

He repositions his arms around the back of my knees and spreads me open. “Fuck, I can smell your sweet arousal.”

I blush.

His pleasure is as tangible as the wood surface beneath me.

And then, as he dips his head, drags his tongue across my clitoris, and sucks on my nub, I completely give in to my desires. I’m a wet, sobbing mess when he thrusts his tongue inside me, and shaking with need when he does so over and over again.

I don’t look away, and brazenly watch him. Half gasping, half moaning as his mouth fucks me toward an orgasm.

And he’s loving this. Pleasuring me pleases him.

“Oh God. Please …”

He abruptly raises his head to scowl at me. Cruel, so cruel. But instead of torture, his mission’s to torment me. “I own every inch of you. Say it.”

“You own every inch of me, Alessandro,” I respond without thinking too deeply about what this actually means for me.

For him.

For us.

Satisfied, he buries his face in my wetness, and quickly, masterfully, works me into a frenzy.

I can’t say when his hand shifts but am immediately aware of where his thumb lands. Everything stills: my breath, his tongue, his digit.

“Mine. Capisci?”

“Yours,” I breathe.

His teeth graze my clit, surprising me before he drives his wicked tongue inside my wetness. My orgasm builds deep within me, fueled by his handsome face and dirty mouth. Watching this dangerous alpha male pleasuring me is such a rush. My pleasure melding with his until I’m panting. Until I’m seconds from winding my fingers in his hair and forcing him closer … impossibly closer.

That’s when he breaches me.

“Oh Lord.” I climax hard, shivering and shaking as my wetness coats his face. Muscles clench around his thumb as he finger-fucks me through it. So dirty and foreign.

Finally, he withdraws and pushes his chair back, distancing himself.

I gaze at him in wonder, until I recognize too late the warmth I’m feeling isn’t reciprocated. Experience should have warned me how foolish it’d be to submit.

“Go,” he commands, taking a sledgehammer to the moment. None of it ever lasts very long.

Dazed, I blink, not sure I’m hearing him correctly. “But…” I gasp.

“Run, Riley,” he thunders. “Before I hurt you for real.”

He summons me to his office at two o’clock the next day, and much like the previous day, I’m forced to sit on full display and in rapt attention while he goes about business. My courage is on vacation while the prisoner I am waits for the perfect time to add another request to our agreement.

Except as an hour then two passes, his mood worsens. Whoever Conti is, Alessandro is a madman on the hunt for him.

“Keep me posted, motherfuckers,” he growls into the phone, and then disconnects. He’s thumbing the next call when I interrupt.

“Wait.”

“Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

“Yesterday, I gave you something special.” My cheeks heat under his intense scrutiny, but I press on. “I’d like something in return.”

“You’re not sticking your finger in my ass.”

I jerk in surprise. “That’s not what…”

He smirks.

I stare at him, at a loss for words.

“Does my fuckdoll miss my mouth on her pussy?”

“No … yes.” I sigh. “For my submission, I get a reward.”

“I’ll spank your ass raw for your impertinence. That reward enough?”

“I want to call my grandparents.” My eyes lock with his steely blue ones. “Say yes, and you can spank me, and then I’ll suck you off afterward.”

He snorts. “What you’re offering I can easily get elsewhere.”

Hurt coils up inside me, and I glance at the carpet. I’m no one to him. Nothing except a doll to be tossed around, and then set aside. Worse still is I’m the only toy made of china. So easy to crack. So easy to ruin. So unlike the thick-skinned rubber dolls with pouty red lips and knives for tongues.

Distress settles over me like a thick fog, so I miss his approach. “You’re deliriously in love…” An iPad lands on my lap. “…with your new boyfriend.”

I look up at him. “What?”

“He took you to Europe for a dream vacation.”

“I can call them?”

He shrugs. “Call, FaceTime.”

I seize the device before he can change his mind, and pull up the app.

“Be mindful with what you say. Capisci?”

“Yes,” I immediately reply. “Thank you.”

“You will. Repeatedly.”

Excitement licks up my spine. At his wicked promise? At the prospect of finally speaking with my grandparents? Or both?

With shaky hands, I enter their number.

“Wait.”

He hoists me off the sofa, and then zips me up, grunting as he tucks my breasts beneath the material.

I press call, and seconds later, Mema’s face appears.

“Riley?”

“Hi, Mema,” I croak. God, how I miss them.

“George,” she hollers. “Put the paper down and get over here. It’s Riley.”

“Riley?” he says in the background.

Guilt rolls over me. While in New York, I should have called more often. But I shut down after the Tragedy. A burden of hurt silencing me.

“Thank God you’re safe,” PopPop exclaims, his anxious face appearing next to Mema’s.

“I’m fine. And so, so sorry to have worried you.”

“You running off like that? We were about ready to call the police.”

The blood drains from my face as I glance at Alessandro, who has returned to his seat but is listening intently. “But you didn’t, right?”

“We were about to until Emily called.”

Hard to miss his flattening lips. “You spoke with her?”

“A few days ago.”

She’s alive. He upheld our arrangement?

He shrugs at my unspoken question, but then I turn my attention to my grandparents.

“Listen, honeybunch. If you’re in trouble…” PopPop, always the fixer, begins.

“We raised you better than this,” Mema interrupts more harshly. “How could you, Riley?”

Their disappointment could fill a stadium.

“I’m sorry you were worried.” I struggle for an excuse. “I lost my bag with my passport, cell phone, and wallet. I’d never willingly cause you such worry.”

“And the drugs?”

My eyes grow wide. “Drugs?”

PopPop leans his head toward the phone. “Cat’s out of the bag. Emily told us, Riley.”

“She told you I’m on drugs?” I exclaim, shocked to my core.

“Not using. Dealing.” PopPop shakes his head with a disbelief that matches my own.

“What?” I screech. Unbelievable. “Emily told you I’m a drug dealer?”

I’m hyperventilating by the time I finish. How could Emily be this vindictive? Alessandro alluded she was disloyal. But I was focused on saving her life and didn’t believe him. I’m hurt my best friend would lie.

Tears spring into my eyes. “I swear to you, I never touched drugs or sold them. Her boyfriend—my boss—was the cokehead. You warned me about him, remember? And God knows, I regret dismissing you.”

“You didn’t run off with that horrible man?” Mema asks, confused.

I clench the iPad tighter. “Hell could freeze over twice before I’d date an asshole like Ciro.”

Hell is too good a place for him.

They look at each other. “Then why, Riley? Why did you run off?”

“I’m in love with someone.” Oh, Lord. Did I have to say it with such conviction? I don’t dare look at Alessandro. I loved him once. But then he was a different man. A stranger. “He took me to Europe. Except, like I said, my bag went missing. Cell service here is horrible, but I called as soon as I could.” Part truth. Part lie. “He’s kind and considerate.”

Alessandro makes a choking noise.

“Is he handsome,” Mema demands.

My cheeks heat as I answer truthfully. “The most handsome man I’ve ever met.”

“You see that, George. Riley really likes this fella. She’s blushing.”

Alessandro snorts, while I turn red. But what’s a little embarrassment when you can reconnect with the people you love, whether he listens in or not? They believe me. They trust me. Emily can choke on rotten eggs.

If only Alessandro would believe me as well.

“What’s his name?”

“His name, honeybunch?” I finally glance at Alessandro, who isn’t even hiding he’s eavesdropping. He nods.

“Al.”

“George, you hear that? Riley’s dating an Al.”

“Al have a last name?” my grandfather presses.

I squeeze my eyes shut for the briefest moment, then open them wide. “Mema, is that a new refrigerator?” I exclaim, gesturing animatedly. Guilt takes another stab at me. Avoidance is lying, but I don’t have a choice.

They turn to look at the same refrigerator that’s been in their house since I was a kid. “This old thing?” Mema huffs.

“New isn’t always better,” PopPop grumbles, the conversation turning to his least favorite—and Mema’s favorite—subject. Yet he’s a seasoned pro at dodging the refrigerator issue.

“When are you coming home?”

“Soon.” I stare over the iPad at Alessandro. “Sooner, after he grows tired of me.”

“Tired of you?” PopPop chuckles. “Not a chance. Any man worth a lick of salt can see my girl has a heart of gold.”

“He better be worth his weight in salt for stealing you away,” Mema chimes in.

“Look, Riley. We’ve got to get your grandmother to her doctor’s appointment. Can you call us tomorrow?”

Is she sick? “Are you okay?” I cautiously ask. When you lose a parent to cancer, a common cold can cause pure panic.

“Don’t worry your head, honey. Acid reflux—that’s all. They got pills for it.” She rolls her eyes, and I relax, knowing she’s fine. “But my medication ran out, and the pharmacy won’t refill my prescription without a checkup.” She continues on and on. If PopPop hates talking about the refrigerator, Mema loves dissing her medical insurance. I mute the mic and lower the iPad. “Can I call them tomorrow?”

“Three o’clock every day unless you’re busy pleasuring me.”

My lips curve and it feels strange. When was the last time I smiled from the heart?

I unmute the device.

“…and I called them three times. Each time, insurance gave me a different answer. So I hung up—”

“I’ll call you every day at three o’clock unless I’m traveling. Is that okay?”

“Call us anytime you want.” PopPop waggles his finger at me. “When you’re ready, we want to hear more about this guy.”

I nod. What else can I say?

Mema fiddles with the phone. “Goodbye for now, honey.”

“Wait,” I cry out before they disconnect. “I love you so much.”

“We love you too, honeybunch. Speak with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bye,” I whisper, and then their faces disappear.

I curl my legs into me, bend my head, and cry. Relief, sorrow, anger, fear—it all comes out.

When I finally lift my head back up, curious why Alessandro’s so quiet, he’s gone.

Without a snide comment or look, he left me alone with my tears.