Page 154 of Dirty Mafia King

“Now about my second nominee.” The old ballbuster’s eyes light up. Everything I worked toward hinges on this moment. Who has he chosen? If it’s Matteo, I have competition.

Dante and I lock eyes.

Don Lucchese coughs. The nurse wheels over a respirator machine and gives him a hit of oxygen.

My fists clench. He’s frail and weak, and fading.

Fuck.

Like me, he despises weakness.

“One phone call,” I say after he recovers, “and I can arrange for a woman to make you feel better. If you can still get it up?”

“I can get it up,” he grunts. “Which reminds me, Alessia seems content.”

I stiffen.Madonna. “She’s adjusted.”

“Sandro’s a lucky man.”

Dante looks from his father to me.

Fucking terrific.

“That girl is special, Bastian. Soft and gentle. A proud man with too many responsibilities could do worse.”

This room is fucking stifling. The nurse better open a window.

“I obviously won’t be attending the wedding. But from a man on his deathbed, and from father to son, I’ve a final wish.”

My stomach gut-punches me from inside.

“What is it?”

“Sandro shouldn’t be the Beneventi at the end of the aisle. You should be.”

I grip the chair as the possibilities within what he’s saying race through my mind. Alessia in my bed every night. Her meals in my belly, and hers swollen with my children. Her beautiful face, gorgeous body, kind spirit present in my life—and not because I’m her goddamn father-in-law.

“You should marry her, Bastian,” Dante comments.

“She’s Sandro’s fiancée.”

“And?” Dante actually looks puzzled.

“It’s a matter of honor.” Somethingyoudon’t respect.

“It’s a matter of you waking up every day a happy man.” Don Lucchese snorts. “Honor reads differently on every man. You, Bastian, never learned to honor yourself first and foremost. Just like all the other stronzi do.”

“You honor your word.”

“And that’s another thing.” He waves a crooked finger at me. “You hate disappointing me.”

What the fuck? I scowl.

“You heard me.”

Is it true? Is Sandro even more of a chip off the ol’ block than I expected? He hates disappointing me the same way I hate disappointing Don Lucchese? We Beneventi men are proud. We’re control freaks, admittedly—even Renzo, though he expresses it differently.

“I fucking loathe disappointing you,” I admit.