Page 2 of Dirty Mafia King

And then Sandro snickers.

Ma che cazzo?

Manocchio seizes the opportunity. “Just look at them.” He gestures at Sandro, then quickly moves on to Renzo, with his busted face and bloodshot eyes, looking like he had his ass handed to him. “So squeaky clean, I can polish my shoes with them. Atlanta’s a big market with a lot of competition. Think they can front a successful multicasino operation? They’ve no credibility.”

Sandro stares daggers at him.

And Renzo …porca puttana…

“As clean as that fat ass you’ve been thumbing. Che palle!”

“Che palle?” Manocchio turns bright red. “What balls? You dare speak to me this way?”

Don Lucchese’s lips draw tight. Renzo might be his godson, but he’s not a made man.

Brain dulled by liquor and drugs, the little shit opens his mouth again.

Sandro slams a hard elbow into his side and knocks the breath out of him.

“I’ve a business meeting this afternoon,” I inform the old man, “and a man I’d like you to meet.”

“I’ve an appointment.” His gaze is locked on Renzo, his head shaking in disgust.

“She’ll wait.”

That gets his lips twitching. The old bastard loves compliments about his virility. Yet he’ll have a raging hard-on after my meeting. Because nothing gets him off more than a corrupt politician. He’s fucking obsessed with the idea of indoctrinating one into the famiglie. We have strong ties with local commissioners and assemblymen but never anyone with significant power.

That’s about to change.

I’m about to invest in the shittiest, shadiest, and savviest politician around. He’ll be perfectly positioned to become chairman of the East Coast Gaming Commission, once I help him win the New York gubernatorial race. He becomes governor. I have a mouthpiece. Don Lucchese gets his politician. A win-win-win situation. I’ll decide, once I meet New York’s next great governor, if I’ll sweeten the pot with more than money.

Conti’s uncle whimpers.

I lock eyes on Don Lucchese and wait. Relishing the moment my patience and hard work become reality.

Don Lucchese wiggles a crooked finger at Conti. “Instead of killing you for making a move without my permission and compromising my goddamn investments—”

“I’ve never seen him before…”

“I’m giving Sebastiano Atlanta.”

Silence descends like a gavel.

Manocchio’s face turns red. Moretti and Lombardi remain impassive, untouched by the decision. Luca Ricci stares at me with newfound respect. And Conti looks stupefied, still processing he’s been outplayed.

I’d laugh, except I’ve a problem that can no longer be ignored.

The twins are twenty-three. Sheltered little shits. Sandro, so fucking serious he can dry fresh wallpaper with a single look. And Renzo, who’d likely be snorting the wallpaper glue as fast as it’s rolled onto the sheets. He showed up in my hotel room this morning bloody, beaten, and as high as a goddamn kite. I’m no saint, but something needs to be done about him.

Renzo wants to run his mouth like a made man?

Let’s make him one.

A first kill will sober him up.

I shove a gun muzzle into Renzo’s chest. “Ask Don Lucchese if you can shoot him in the throat?”

Next to him, Sandro stares his brother down until Renzo finally speaks. “Do I have your permission?”