Page 153 of Dirty Mafia King

Dai. He hasn’t lost his morbid sense of humor, has he?

I pull a chair beside Dante’s.

“First, I’ll address Dante. You’ve been a good son. I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

Dante stiffens in his chair, like he’s anticipating what’s coming next.

“This Hollywood bullshit is amusing. But if you hope to be taken seriously, stop fucking billionaire’s wives and daughters like you’re going to run out of pussy, and settle down. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes,” Dante grumbles. If he didn’t pull the shit he pulled, I’d nudge him in the side and wink.

Don Lucchese shifts in the bed. The nurse hurries over and adjusts his pillow before his focus turns toward me. “Ever since you showed up here unannounced with your two boys in tow, I thought of you as a second son.” He pauses, then grumbles, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Ah, fuck.

“I loved you like a son, capisci?”

“Capisci.” My voice is raw, and honest. “You’re the father I never had, Don Lucchese.”

“I know, boy. I know. Which brings me to this point; I’ve nominated you as my successor.” He wiggles a crooked finger at Dante. “You’ll be his second-in-command.”

He says this like it’s final. But there’ll be a second man nominated for the famiglie to vote on.

My guess is it’ll be Matteo Lombardi.

Dante leans forward, probably reaching the same conclusion.

But the sly old man is never predictable. My eyes narrow on him. Isn’t he unusually joyful for a man on his deathbed?

“There are two conditions, though,” he adds.

There it is.

Dante glances my way.

“You”—he points a finger at me—“swear to forgive and protect Dante like a brother.”

“Forgive him for what?” I exclaim.

“You”—he jabs the air and addresses Dante—“stop this behind-the-back bullshit you’ve got going on with Pietro Gallo before Bastian murders you.”

I spin toward Dante.

His face drains of color.

The Gallos are one of the Twelve and Italy’s oldest and most productive famiglia. They grow pistachios in Sicily and are highly respected by the others. I’ve never had an issue with their capo, Pietro. I helped him build a global stock portfolio and found investors for his legitimate farming business. What the fuck is Dante Lucchese about? Why the secrecy?

“We’ll talk,” I snap.

“It’s not what you think,” he responds in a low voice.

“I don’t think anything, yet.”

Don Lucchese claps his hands, silencing us. “I’ve seen a lot in my life. So believe Dante when he says it’s not what you think.”

The old man knows? What. The. Fuck?