Page 161 of Dirty Mafia King

My lips part. Lord, Sandro sounds like Bastian.

“Well?” Sandro flips his wrist like he’s checking the time. “I haven’t got all goddamn day.”

“No.”

That feltgood.

“What do you mean, no?” he demands, seething.

I lift my shoulders. “No list.”

“Wow, you do have a backbone, don’t you?”

“Your turn.” I draw my lips together, and I do my best Bastian impression. “You find a suitable church, one with walls that won’t crumble in horror at my presence?”

“No.”

I arch an eyebrow. “No?”

Sandro chuckles. “That felt fucking amazing.”

I tap his glass with the wine bottle. “No.”

“No,” Sandro repeats.

We’re interrupted by fierce pounding on the hotel room door.

We look at each other, then back just in time to watch the door swing open.

Bastian stumbles in and, flicking the door closed in the doorman’s face, staggers toward us. “You didn’t book her a room,” he snarls, his outrage directed at Sandro.

“She’s spending the evening with her fiancé.”

“And you”—Bastian waves a finger at me—“were supposed to be alone and waiting.” Either Bastian is as drunk as we are, or there are two Bastians glaring at me.

“But instead I’m with my fiancée.”

“Not anymore.” He steps between Sandro and me, forces us to make room for his big body, and drops to the floor.

I watch in stunned silence as he grabs the whiskey bottle from the floor and drinks from it.

“Everything went well?” Sandro prompts, unfazed.

“Yes. Better than expected, even.”

“Good.”

Bastian tosses an arm around my shoulders and tugs me close. Despite my confusion, despite my worries, I melt into him.

Sandro looks from his father to me, and then grabs a full whiskey bottle from the floor, opens it, splashes liquid into his glass, then drinks heavily.

“You’re both drunk.”

Neither of us reply—no need to.

“Fuck it,” he grumbles. “Let’s get this over with. We need to discuss the wedding.”

“No,” Sandro and I burst out in unison.