For the next week, I remained confined inside that bedroom.
Every day brought new reports of shootings and turf wars. Nero left before sunrise and rarely returned before midnight.
During the day, he was as cold and cutting as ever.
Sometimes, he even mocked me, calling me a shameless gold digger who had crawled into his bed for money.
But once the bedroom door closed at night, he held me with a desperation that bordered on madness.
My touch had become a drug to him.
No matter how much he had, it was never enough.
Night after night, he proved that the condition tormenting him for more than 20 years had finally disappeared.
I kept warning myself not to fall for him.
To a Mafia boss, women were possessions.
The moment his fascination faded, I would be the one left paying the price.
