Page 130 of Dirty Mafia King

“Bastian? He’s Mr. Beneventi to you.” His body stiffens with outrage. “What woman addresses her father-in-law by a nickname only his closest friends have permission to use?”

“Never mind that,” I snap. “Is he okay?” I lean forward in my seat, then back, and then rock back and forth like the motion will help alleviate my worry.

Sandro treats me to another lengthy stare. “We’re on a partial lockdown.”

“What does that mean? Like a school lockdown?”

“All Beneventi businesses and personnel are under heightened security.” He points toward the elevator. “And you come waltzing in with security a blindfolded child could overpower.”

“Like you care.” But my comment doesn’t match my concern. A lockdown? Why? When?

“I don’t.” He sits higher in his chair, then mutters, “But he sure as fuck does.”

“What did you say?”

“Not important. Not yet, anyway.” He sighs. “The alert went out before daybreak.”

“Maybe it doesn’t apply to me?”

Sandro stares at me. “You joking right now?”

“Fine. I’m a Beneventi.” I swallow hard. It’s always been Bastian Beneventi in my mind. Not Renzo. Not Sandro. Never anyone else, as much as I tried to redirect my thoughts. “Don’t punish Stephano. I would have driven alone if he hadn’t insisted.”

“Mine won’t be the only bullet he gets.” Sandro flexes his fingers. “Shit’s gone down, and a capo is dead.”

“Oh no.”

“No loss. He deserved it.”

I draw back, not expecting that.

“Burned our site in Atlanta to the ground.”

Oh. My. God. “Bastian murdered him?”

“No.”

I exhale in relief.

“He handed him a dozen roses—what the hell do you think?”

The room spins. Bastian’s mafioso, and a control freak. He loves inflicting pain, on different levels and for different outcomes, enjoyable if he intends it to be, less so if he doesn’t. When did my fear change to trust? When did misguided lust twist into love?

“Better not throw up on my white rug.”

“Can I have a glass of water?” I squeak.

Sandro surprises me and, seconds later, removes the cap, then hands me a cold Fiji water. By the time he sits, I’ve finished half the bottle.

“Don’t hurt my guard.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you here, Alessia?”

“Where are we getting married?”

Sandro chokes on his water. “Where?”

“New York City? Rhode Island? A large or small venue? Any favorite places? Any suggestions?”