Page 160 of Dirty Mafia King

“Yes. And he did eat takeout a lot.”

Sandro bursts into laughter. “Bet that pissed him off. He loves your cooking.”

Loves my cooking but not me.

I drink deeply. “Are you in love?” I try again, though Sandro’s been tight-lipped about his girlfriend.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I flip over onto my side. “That’s a yes.”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s the understatement of the century.” I pause. “I’m sorry. She asked, and I replied honestly. I didn’t know.”

“Forget about it. My men will track her down.”

He tosses back his whiskey.

“Sandro, what are we going to do?” I say, my words dragging.

“Don’t know. I thought when my father came barreling into my apartment and hauled your ass back to Rhode Island, everything would have resolved itself. But now, I’m not so sure.”

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth. “He’s at a club, celebrating his success right now, isn’t he?”

Sandro nods.

“And he probably has a trio of women at his beck and call.”

“Possibly. He’s never committed to a woman before. Having two heirs to carry on the Beneventi name without marrying allowed him the freedom to do whatever the fuck he wants.”

My throat hitches.

“If you love him, really love him, then you’ll need to teach him how to love a woman. Because I’m not sure he’s capable of it.”

The blood drains from my face.

“Damn it, Alessia. I said too much.”

“Just the truth.” Even though the truth hurts like hell. I take another drink to calm the hurt. In the moment the bottle’s raised and I’m swallowing fine wine like water, a solution emerges. “Solving our immediate problem is actually simple. We tell him no.”

“What?”

“Next time he mentions the wedding, we tell him no.” I pause as Sandro considers my plan. “What’s the worst he’ll do? Lock us in the dungeon?”

“You really aren’t afraid of him, huh?”

“It’s more I trust him not to hurt me. Not in the ways I don’t want him to, anyway.”

Sandro coughs.

I laugh uncontrollably. What a prude, and a hypocrite. Thanks to Zoey, I’m well aware how Sandro likes to dominate women in the bedroom. That poor redhead should be happy she escaped. “We should practice,” I finally say.

“Practice? Hell no. He’ll kill me if I touch you like that.”

“I mean, let’s practice saying no. Pretend you’re Bastian. Ask me a question about the wedding.”

His brows pinch as he growls, “Did you make a fucking wedding list yet?”