Page 13 of Dirty Mafia King

“Ah, so you do know who I am.” He grins. “An angel with a mouth. Heaven’s dream. What’s your name?”

“Sheila.” The lie rolls off my tongue. We spent an hour in the same room, yet he has no clue who I am? How quickly can I make it across the grass and around the side of the house in heels?

“My friends call me Renzo.”

“Okay, Lorenzo.”

His phone chings, startling him. I study him as he checks his messages, sadness creeping into his blue eyes. His manner reads disappointment. It’s like witnessing someone who believed he found his lost puppy only to receive bad news. His skin pales, and then turns a greenish hue.

Oh no. “Are you going to throw up?”

“Not right this second.” He offers me a fake smile.

How many times have I done the same? How many times has disappointment nearly destroyed me?

“I’m in the mood to sober up.”

Like with the potted plant, the overwhelming urge to help him spurs me on. My pity and judgment won’t distract him from whoever is causing him pain. So, I settle on snark.

“Should I clap my hands or something?”

His smile steals my breath. Not because it’s winsome or beautiful. Renzo Beneventi’s smile’s heartbreaking.

Who would have thought, on a horrible day such as this, I’d meet someone whose soul is as lost as my own? And he feels it too, doesn’t he?

For a brief moment, we stare at each other.

Until our protective masks slip back into place.

“So, Sassy Sheila, my angel from above,” he says, the joking jester reappearing, “want to see the golf course?”

CHAPTER5

BASTIAN

Governor Amato’s butchered corpse is about to stink up my dungeon.

I swirl the whiskey around my glass, seconds away from trashing my office. I’ve a houseful of guests waiting for a big announcement. The Great Room is abuzz with speculation. And, with one email, everything’s shot to shit.

I don’t lose face,ever.

The Amatos are going to pay dearly.

Twenty years ago, my father beat me senseless, called me worthless, and told me I’d never amount to anything, that I’d never be capo. Not only did I become head of the Beneventis after his murder, I’ve surpassed everything he dreamed of achieving.

The Twelve Famiglie’s businesses are thriving. Thanks to my investments, money rains down on us like a ticker-tape parade. Our combined stock portfolios are in the trillions. We’re fucking drowning in cash. I spent years proving my worth. Now I handle everything—even some of that penny-pinching punk Benny’s investments—while they sit back and collect.

And what do I get in return, besides luxurious Maseratis and a lifetime pass to fucking Disneyland? Something my old man strived for but never earned—respect.

Still, it’s not enough.

I want the motherfucking kingdom.

Murdering my way into power won’t get me there. We mafiosi operate in the twenty-first century now. The world’s changed, and the Twelve have had to adapt. Don Lucchese recognizes this. Wars caused Rome to fall, so what makes us believe we’re any different? Famiglie who work together, flourish together, right? And while I may have built a financial powerhouse, the sly, chain-smoking ballbuster has united us into a finely tuned subversive empire.

All twelve capos signed off on the new rules of succession. No more wars, but instead elections. The Twelve vote between two men to become the next capo di tutti capi. Don Lucchese decides who’s earned the right to be nominated, and their names are recorded on a notarized and sealed legal document that’s then secured inside a vault.

Everyone talks about it being all democratic and shit. Except there’s a hitch—Dante Lucchese. He’s part of the package. The Veep, if you will. Dante won’t step into his father’s shoes. Yet by being assigned to a lesser role, he’s less likely to be murdered in his sleep because of cries of foul play.