Page 21 of Dirty Mafia King

Sienna looks like someone snatched away her designer purse.

Renzo’s panicked.

Sandro’s goddamn elated, knowing it’s unlikely Amato will succeed within the necessary timeframe.

And the little voyeur is frozen, staring at the laptop like she knows exactly how easy it’ll be to ruin her father.

I flip it open, spin it around, hit unmute, and then play.

Sienna’s lusty groan fills the room, while that Italian punk, Frankie DiCapitano, drills her from behind.

CHAPTER7

ALESSIA

Monsters are supposed to live in closets or beneath beds. They’re not supposed to be the porn star in your darkest, dirtiest fantasies. In reality, Sebastiano Beneventi is both a disrupter of dreams and my worst living nightmare.

I blink back tears and stare at my father asleep in the hospital bed. Alive, barely. Beaten, brutally. Deserving of punishment, undoubtedly. I blame him entirely for the chaos he caused. Yet I understand the power Sebastiano Beneventi has over others, having experienced it myself.

That man’s magnetism draws you in so quickly, you forget to run. Is this how my father was lured in? Why he agreed to a marriage? Why he indulged a mafioso capo who could make life hell?

I recognized Sebastiano Beneventi immediately. His finely muscled body is branded in my mind. How many times have I relived our exchange? Replayed his gruff warning, how I’m ripe fruit begging to be plucked. Coming face-to-face with him, and realizing he’s exactly everything that terrifies me and absolutely not a man I should fantasize about, is like ice water to the face.

Sure, he’s undeniably sexy.

But dangerous.

And so very, very vindictive.

He didn’t recognize you. At least there’s that.

When you’re a little kid, you fear things like spiders and ghosts, a bad report card and not being invited to the It-Girl’s birthday party. I never understood what true fear is until now.

His wrath descended upon my family like an iron fist.

He promised financial ruin and delivered with astonishing speed. One by one, Father’s bank accounts have been frozen. Notices confirming stock sales fill his email. The ruthless capo must have compiled a list of our family’s assets well before that horrible day. But he didn’t stop there.

A huge “Building Code Violation” sign now decorates the entrance to our Tribeca loft, warning that an investigation into the building’s elevators is being conducted and prohibiting residents from using them until the matter is resolved. The only way to access the loft is by using the stairwell. And with my father hospitalized, the trek up and down the stairs is unavoidable.

Even the soft hum of the IV machine feels like an attack, my anxious thoughts keeping tempo with the machine while the same question spirals on repeat: What next?

What next?

What next?

Because there will be a next.

Sebastiano Beneventi wants names. A ridiculous, impossible list of corrupt politicians who’d be loyal to the mafioso, powerful and politically savvy enough to be elected chairman of the new East Coast Gaming Commission, and have a sacrificial daughter of marriageable age. Naming corrupt politicians is easy. But none are in the perfect position to satisfy all the requirements.

Hello needle, meet haystack.

Lord, what are we going to do? The beating was a warning—he’ll kill my father.

Daddy Dearest shifts his head on his pillow, yet his eyes remain closed.

Just like his eyes were closed when he approached Mr. Beneventi about financing his campaign.

Look what you’ve done—the price your family is paying because you did business with the mafia.