Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
FINA
One Year Ago
And what I want is to go for a ride.
The idea has obsessed me for weeks. My taking control of the thing he worships most; his precious car at my complete mercy.
He’ll never know. YouTube taught me more than enough to cover my ass, like how to roll back the odometer and erase my tracks, as if I never touched his car.
Sometimes I toy with darker urges.
Sometimes I give into them—little things, mostly.
Petty sabotage. I’ve watered down his booze, added salt to his dinner when he’s not looking, and subtly rearranged his desk.
I know the passwords to his computer, phone, and the safe inside his bedroom closet.
Deleting messages and changing names within his contacts, leaking his gambling debts to the other capos, skimming small amounts of cash—a little here, a little there …
The list goes on. Messing with the security cameras is my favorite pastime; it drives him into hysterics when they glitch or record random images of the sky.
I know every angle and every blind spot, and work them to my advantage.
Today, the urge is darker than usual. A filthy word carved into his custom leather seats, sharp, cruel, worthy of him?
But the voice of reason prevails. Resist the temptation, Fina.
Take the ride. Keep the illusion. You’re a mafia princess and the picture-perfect example of obedience.
A woman the famiglie can point to and say, “Her father’s a fucking financial disgrace, but look at his daughter and how perfectly she carries his debts. ”
I climb inside and slam the door behind me, rattling the hinges.
I flip the security camera the Italian salute as I start the engine, smirking at the thought of how all my father will ever see is the loop I set, with his beloved Mustang sitting untouched in the garage and the driveway outside frozen in its empty stillness.
With a hard foot on the accelerator, I back the Mustang out of the garage like a bat out of hell, engine roaring and rubber shrieking against concrete, an adrenaline rush flooding my veins.
Until I nearly plow into a man on the sidewalk.
I slam my foot on the brake, tires screaming, the car jerking to a halt just inches from him.
“What the hell?” I snap.
The fool barely flinches, hands shoved in his pockets, completely unruffled, like near-death experiences are par for the course.
I climb out, teeth clenched. “I almost killed you.”
“Then the cross-country invite would have been pointless,” he replies, peeling off his baseball cap and raking fingers through his dark hair.
I freeze. Recognition strikes me like a punch.
Renzo.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see him.
A week ago, I made a bold, calculated move: I texted him, inviting him to LA, out of the blue and so sudden, he’s probably wondering how I even got his number.
He turned me down once, back when I didn’t know my own worth.
But desperate times call for desperate measures, and with my father out of town, it felt like the perfect moment to lure him here.
I used what I know about his lifestyle to my advantage, promising him a good time and attaching a naked photo of me bound in playful shibari. My friend and I laughed while she worked the cotton rope around me and as I posed for pictures.
I never told anyone what happened four years ago.
But I relived that moment, fantasized about it in vivid detail—even extensively researching bondage and rope playing—so I could fuel the memory, the fantasy, more fully.
Cotton rope against my skin. His warm fingertips brushing my breast. That deliciously dangerous gleam in his eyes, suggesting I’m in deep, deep trouble.
That there are things he can show me, filthy, dirty things I don’t even know I crave yet.
It’s as vivid as if it happened yesterday.
Did I think my invitation would work? Not really.
But here he is. And holy shit, he’s so much more than I remember.
Inky curls, tousled and defiant, frame his rugged face.
A shadow of stubble sharpens the line of his jaw.
A black leather vest clings to his muscled torso, left open to reveal a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath faded, low-slung jeans.
Flip-flops are the only nod to the West Coast. Part surfer.
Part biker. And judging by the smirk on his lips, a total stud.
I underestimated how commanding a presence he has in person.
He sets the cap on his head and strolls up to the car. “We going somewhere?” he asks in a husky, lazy tone.
Like to my bedroom?
Like to a Hollywood sex club where he can do wicked things to my body?
He rakes his eyes over me like he’s comparing the naughty girl in the photo to today’s version.
I’m wearing a jeans miniskirt, tight crop top, flip-flops, moody silk underwear, and a ridiculously expensive pearl necklace I purchased with my father’s credit card.
I wear it like a banner, a small victory in the war between his greed and my fight to survive.
“I’m surprised you came.”
“Trust me,” he replies. “So am I.”
Okay. So maybe the pic didn’t make him hard for weeks. “Still, you’re here.”
He skims his eyes over me like he expected bubble gum and Barbie dolls, and found a rare vintage wine. Okay, so I definitely captured his attention.
He tosses a black duffel bag next to my purse in the backseat, then hops over the door, into the passenger seat. “I’m yours for the next few days.”
Pure filth fills my mind. Get a grip, Fina. He doesn’t mean sex.
He smirks.
Or does he?
He nods toward the mansion on the hill. “Where’s your father?”
“Chicago.”
His eyes rest on me, yet he doesn’t say anything. I mean, what can he say?
“The cameras are glitching again,” I reassure him. “No one will know you’re here or that we’ve left together.”
His lips curl. “Glitching, huh?”
I raise a shoulder.
Then, we take off.
It’s the kind of perfect California day where sunlight cascades over the hills and the ocean waves break on the horizon. The sky stretches wide above, and the crisp coastal air rolls over us. Top down and sunglasses on, my hair catches in the breeze.
The world ours to chase.
And it will be … it must be.
“Beautiful day,” I murmur, glancing his way.
He stretches his long legs lazily, head tilted back against the seat, face basking in the sun. “Beats the humidity back East,” he replies effortlessly.
We’re talking—it’s a start. Light, easy, the kind of conversation that makes twisting him around my finger feel completely doable. Because attraction … obsession, really … aside, this is business.
“Ever been in the Pacific Ocean?”
“No.” His voice dips into a low, seductive rumble. “If that’s where we’re headed, I didn’t pack a bathing suit.”
I can’t help a smirk. The things I know about this man … how little he cares about clothes, for instance …
Still, beyond a few mafia gatherings and one unforgettable encounter, we don’t truly know each other. I’ve been stalking him on social media for years, so there’s that. But to say I’m prepared for the raw, dark masculinity radiating from the seat beside me is an understatement.
“How have you been?”
He smirks. Just that.
I press on. “And your father? How is he?”
“Ambitious.”
A single word is all he gives me.
“And your brother?” Gag me.
He snorts. “Like you give a rat’s ass about Sandro. Are we going to keep playing nicey-nice, or are we going to get to why I’m really here?”
I frown. “Nicey-nice.”
He leans over, snatches my sunglasses from my face, and casually flings them over his shoulder.
“What the hell, asshole?” I shout, watching them tumble into the canyon to our right. “They were Prada.” Bought with my father’s credit card, one of the few rewards after he backhanded me for being sick and missing that trip to Chicago to meet Carlo. I earned those sunglasses.
“Now they’re nada.”
Fury sparks through me as I lock eyes with him. “I forgot what a self-serving dick you are.”
He chuckles. “There she is. Hiding behind the niceties.”
“I’m not hiding?”
“No? Then where’s the girl brave enough to, out of the fucking blue, send me a daring, naughty picture, and reminding me what a budding deviant lurks beneath the princess shell?
” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a tightly rolled paper, sparks it, and draws in a deep drag.
The sweet, pungent scent of marijuana curls around us.
“To answer your question, I was bored shitless until that picture showed up.”
“Must be nice, that luxury of boredom.”
“For most, yeah. But for me? It’s dangerous. Boredom brings on my darkest vices.”
I tilt my head, studying him more carefully. He’s a powerful mafioso’s wild, rule-breaking son, yet boredom is what he finds dangerous? Fascinating.
On the surface, it’s golf outings, social gatherings, the occasional mafia affair.
But beneath the pretty picture he presents, his world is deliciously wicked, filled with underground fight clubs, high-end sex clubs, nights ripe with drugs, whiskey, and sin.
Renzo thrives on flirting, with anything on two legs and with destruction.
If I could capture a fraction of that life, one small nibble of that forbidden freedom, I’d feel alive in ways I’ve only imagined.
But freedom in any way, shape, or form is why I lured him here.
“I’m like a starved animal.” He takes a long drag of his joint, then slowly releases smoke into the air. “My mind craves stimulation.”
Hiding my interest, I roll my eyes. “Is that why you dull your senses?”
“I wish marijuana were the cure.”
I snort. “Not just marijuana. Booze. Drugs. Picking fights with dangerous mafiosi, like Luciano Santoro?”
Silence fills the space between us.
“You keeping tabs on me?”
I bite my lip, weighing my words. I don’t want to scare him off, but fear isn’t a language he understands, is it? Fuck it. “You insinuated Luciano Santoro is a kiss-ass.”
“He’s all up in Dante Lucchese’s business.”