Page 11 of Dirty Mafia King

Father makes the rounds, shaking hands with anyone who notices him. Are the mafiosi aware he’s the New York governor? If not, they are now. Do they wonder why we’re here?

Sienna seems ecstatic. Alessandro is an enormous step up from Frankie DiCapitano. She’s likely thrilled to marry into such a powerful and wealthy mafioso family.

My attention pivots from face to face, and then lands on an enormous painting across the hall. A king sits on a gilded throne, head bent and thighs parted. A woman wearing a stark white nightgown is curled up at his feet, her cheek pressed against his thigh as she gazes hungrily up at him.

The dramatic dark background contrasts beautifully with the light reflecting across the woman’s expression. Very Caravaggio in style. Very 1600s Italian Baroque. I exhale sharply, the fight going out of me.

It’s a sign, a signal all will be right. Survive the next few weeks, lie low, and bite my tongue, until my usefulness peaks. And perhaps, for once in recent years, Father will honor his promise.

I slip through a side door into a hallway, then pop two buttons at the throat of my dress before making my escape. Sunlight on my face will soothe my aching heart, right? Not mend it—that’s impossible with a family who only knows how to rip it apart.

Halfway down the hallway, I stop short, blocked by an enormous palm toppled into my path. “Poor baby,” I murmur, the urge to do something, anything—even righting a bit of vegetation—strong. “Let me help you.”

I grasp the trunk and lift … and fingers wrap around my ankle.

“Holy hell.” I jerk my foot free and step back.

The palm topples.

And then laughter rings out from somewhere beneath it.

* * *

“You’re wearing red.”

I look wildly about for a way to escape as the lunatic beneath the houseplant rolls into a seated position.

“What?”

He snatches my ankle once more. “Your underwear is red.”

“Remove your hand,” I order in a shaky voice, “or I’ll kick you.”

Helaughs.

Leaving me no choice. I kick him in the kidney, forcing him to release me.

“Ah, the angel has some devil in her?” He falls back onto the floor, arms and legs in anX, like I actually injured him. In that moment, I recognize him.

Lorenzo Beneventi.

I step away with a gasp.

He rolls to a seated position again, then runs fingers through his jet-black hair. “How long was I out for?”

Passed out behind a house palm, he means?

This is Sienna’s soon-to-be brother-in-law? I’m at a loss what to do.

Voices echo from down the hallway.

He nudges my thigh. “Help me up, will you?”

I’m three seconds from bolting. Yet there’s something familiar about him…

“Please.”

I stare at him, and at the hand offered.