Page 18 of Dirty Mafia King

“On his way.”

“What’s this about?” Amato inquires, offering me a politician’s smile to hide his unease. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish unease were the only emotion he’s feeling.

“Family meeting.” I gesture to the chairs in front of my desk. “Take a seat.”

They sit while Sandro drags three more chairs before my desk.

“About the announcement?”

“We’ll wait for my other son.”

Amato offers me a broader smile, meant to charm. What I’d find charming right now is his broken body swinging from the meat hook in my dungeon.

Silence spreads across the office.

“Without fear, you’re weak,” my old man liked to say. I don’t disagree, but fear doesn’t always have to be provoked through violence. What would devastate a politician like Amato? A tarnished reputation? Financial ruin?

After I work him over within an inch of his miserable life?

I killed my first man at eight. My father’s friend, who cornered me in our barn and thought he’d force a blow job. I waited until he had his dick out before driving my Swiss Army Knife into his kidney.

My father was so pissed he beat me, and then tossed me into the family dungeon. Not because I’d killed the fucking predator, but because he had to come up with an explanation for the circumstances surrounding the mafioso’s murder. I survived a week belowground, with several broken ribs and a bottle of water.

It didn’t stop me from going behind his back over my sons, and knowingly facing the same consequences.

Now, given the situation I’m in, I understand my old man’s predicament. A brutal ass whupping and the dungeon won’t resolve the position the Amato’s placed me in.

What am I supposed to tell Don Lucchese? I’ve been duped first by our favorite politician, and then his daughter? We’ll no longer have a man heading the new commission? Our casino expansions are on hold? The old man bought a yacht. Hates flying but sails around the Mediterranean like an NBA All-Star. Trusted me when I assured him the deal was done.

I grab the whiskey bottle and pour another drink. Amato and his daughter exchange glances.

“Sandro, ask your fiancée if she’s been to Rome.”

My son searches my expression, then his lip curls. Without words, the little shit recognizes the engagement’s off. As for his brother … Wherein fuck’s name is Renzo?

“I love Italy,” Amato’s daughter exclaims. “My sister attended school in Rome, and I spent a few weeks visiting her. The museums, the food—”

“The nightlife,” I deadpan.

She forces a laugh. “Yes. It rivals New York.” She turns to Sandro and offers him a bright smile. “Do you like to go out?”

“No.”

She flinches.

“Like her sister,” Amato interrupts, “Sienna’s more of a homebody…” He drones on and on with his lies, praising his fallen apple. I lean back and let him talk. Soon, we’ll get to the point of what really needs to be said.

Did he think I wouldn’t learn of the deal he made with Conti? How he’s been double-dipping in the mafioso pool? How he represented a rival famiglie to the commission in a territory I’m about to take over?

A commotion outside the office announces Renzo’s arrival. Two knocks, and in he bursts, dragging a young woman in a conservative yet classy white dress behind him.

“I’ll meet you in the great room,” she argues with my son. Renzo has that effect. He can draw the devil out of a saint with a single word.

“I need you beside me.”

“I’ve grass stains—”

“No one will be looking at your tit. Not with that angel face of yours.”