Page 102 of Dirty Mafia King

My eyes close as my knees go weak and I collapse on the bench.

A towel falls over my head.

“Wrap yourself up.” His commands are razor sharp. I unravel myself, then stare up at him. “Then go inside the casita and lock the goddamn door. Capisci?”

I blink up at him.

The man I fled three nights ago.

He charges off, leaving me with one mind-blowing thought. Who’s running now?

CHAPTER35

BASTIAN

Ispear a piece of spicy beef with my chopstick and bring it to my mouth. Takeout, again.

And I’ve grown weary of it.

You can have all my firsts.

I chew, then wash the Chinese food down with whiskey. Tasting neither, because I can’t get the taste of sweet temptation from my lips.

Numerous reasons I shouldn’t take what I want replay in my mind. What would Don Lucchese think if I’m fucking Sandro’s fiancée? How would my son react? Or his lovestruck twin?

Dante will have something snide to say, for sure.

The other capos might misinterpret my actions as weakness—like I’m some randy boy who can’t control his appetites or a gullible fuckhead who’s led around by his cock.

Governor Amato could balk.

And then there’s the fucking wedding—I won’t go back on my promise to the old man. He’s smitten with her, too. Come hell or high water, Alessia will walk down the aisle.

You said one more time, one last chance, and she failed.

The lights in the kitchen turn on.

“Holy shit, sir,” Freido says. “Didn’t realize anyone was in the dark.”

I grunt and spear another beef medallion.

“Chinese tonight?”

Observant fuck.

I wait for him to comment about the three other take-out dinners this week. At least, Little Miss I’ll-Give-You-Everything had enough self-preservation to listen earlier, and lock herself inside the casita. Because when a man like me crosses the motherfucking line, a corruptible baby like her better lock herself away.

Especially considering I’m struggling to cross back over. “How long have we been friends?”

Freido draws up a counter stool. “Acquaintances, since our early twenties. Friends, a bit later.”

I grunt. Honest and loyal—as well as my most ruthless enforcer.

“What’s my greatest weakness?”

His eyebrows rise. “Sir?”

“Tell it to me straight, no bullshit.” I wait for confirmation that my sons are my weakness. That love—no matter the shape or form—is my Achilles heel.