Page 117 of Bad Bishop

“He says criminals at least have the decency to own up to their sins,” Vello explained. “I don’t disagree.”

“He’s a cook, not the fucking pope,” President Keaton grumbled.

“Call him a cook to his face.” Enzo grinned into his drink. “See how that works out for you.”

Meanwhile, Lila pretended to readjust herself directly on my cock, leaning forward to reach for her glass of water and spreading her thighs just enough to nestle the length of me between them, then squeezed hard.

I suppressed a groan, my jaw tightening.

A second round of appetizers was ushered to the table. Tierney and Achilles were locked in some kind of who-blinks-first game. The air was thick with violent tension. I thrust my hips forward, teasing Lila’s opening through our clothes as I reached for a piece of calamari and popped it into my mouth.

“It’s unbecoming for a woman to sit in a man’s lap at the dinner table,” Chiara finally signed to her daughter.

Lila flashed her a slow provocative smile. “He’s not just any man, Mama. He is my husband. I’m sure everyone at the table already knows he fucks me senseless every night.”

“What a terrible day to have eyes.” Enzo gagged on a piece of bread, coughing it into his fist. “Why did I go straight to the naughty parts when I started learning ASL?”

“Because you’re a pervert?” Luca offered indifferently.

“Because you’re mentally eleven,” Achilles guessed in unison.

“Wait, what did she sign?” Luca frowned.

Enzo rolled his eyes. “Put more time and effort into your ASL studies and find out,stronzi.”

Vello looked like he was about to expire on his lasagna.

“How dare you speak to me that way, and under my own roof?” Chiara’s dark eyes singed like two burning coals.

“Did I do you a disservice?” Lila cocked her head, blinking innocently. “Doesn’t feel very nice, does it? Imagine what the last eighteen years have been like for me.”

“Burn.” Enzo coughed into his fist.

“Sign slower. I’m trying to translate all of this into English.” Luca scrolled on his phone, glowering.

“Maybe it’s best if we switch to another topic,” Francesca Keaton suggested cordially.

“Agreed.” Enzo shoveled food down his throat, turning to the president. “Dude, isn’t your wife, like, fifteen years your junior?”

Jesus. The Ferrantes were a right mess. And here I thought my family was fucked up.

Keaton pinned Enzo with a look that could decimate armies. “Didn’t your big brother fuck your ex-girlfriend?” he retorted.

Achilles grinned behind his glass of wine. “She called him mid-act to dump him, I dicked her so good.”

“You did have an unfair advantage, Achilles.” Tierney raised her champagne in a toast. “Dick is your entire personality.”

At this point, Vello decided the best course of action was to start a new conversation. One in a language everybody spoke, and not about his children’s sex lives.

“President Keaton. It appears we have an…insectproblem in this house.” The don cleared his throat emphatically. His way of informing him that the place was bugged.

“That’s quite unfortunate.” Keaton sat back, one arm flung over the back of his wife’s chair.

Francesca Rossi was a mother of three. Charitable, beautiful, and the most popular First Lady in the last twenty years. She was also the subject of many hit pieces in the media. Partly because she married her husband when she was a teen and he was in his thirties. But mostly because she was a Mafia princess.

The Keatons never denied their affiliation with the Chicago Outfit. Oftentimes, Keaton would strike deals with less-than-reputable fellas to get his way. We had one together, in which I cleaned Hunts Point’s streets of sex workers, instead opening off-the-grid brothels where employees were tested for drugs and STIs and got steady, fair pay under the table.

Overall, the American people were happy. The economy was strong, crime rate was relatively low, and the world wasn’t on fucking fire.