Page 47 of Dirty Mafia King

He shifts his hand higher.

“Message received,” I hiss beneath my breath. “We’re in love.” I clamp my hand down on his. “You get off on torturing me.” Not a question, but fact.

“I could do a lot worse.”

I change tactics because our arguing isn’t helping. “Can’t we try to be friends?” I say it with sincerity. Proving my skill at lying is at an all-time high today.

He places a gentle kiss on my nose. “I don’t do girl friend.”

“Right.” His expression changes, and I study him more closely. “You’re serious.”

No answer.

“Why not?”

He shifts beneath me, and I lose my perch, grabbing his shoulders to steady myself. “What I need in a woman is complete obedience,” he softly replies. “Something beyond what you are capable of.”

I’ve hit a nerve. What skeletons is he hiding? Knowing his brother—his father—there’s likely closets full.

He leans forward for another kiss.

“Enough.” I pitch sideways as Bastian’s voice rings out. To his credit, Sandro wraps an arm around me and prevents my fall. “Bring Alessia over here. Don Lucchese wants a word.”

“Don’t. Fuck. This. Up,” Sandro grinds out. Then, with a comical grin on his face, I’m lifted and set on my feet. He stands, snatches my hand, and pulls me along toward his father and godfather. He manages a final warning as we draw closer. “Don’t address either unless spoken to.”

My eyes skim over their empty plates before I focus on the two men standing a few feet from the table.

Don Lucchese moves first, and pulls me into a hug. I force myself to relax and swallow back my nervousness. “You’re too pretty not to touch,” the grandfatherly man proclaims. “Isn’t that right, Bastian?”

I blush.

Bastian grunts.

Sandro remains mercifully oblivious. “Did you enjoy my fiancée’s cooking, Godfather?”

Don Lucchese pulls back to look at me. “It was perfection. If any remained, I’d request you freeze the leftovers for me to take home.”

“If you have a sweet tooth,” I offer with a shy smile, “I’ll bake a special treat for you instead.”

The old man’s eyes light up with delight.

I avoid eye contact with Bastian. But Sandro’s smug grin says he’s pleased with this exchange.

“Bastian, your boy ready to begin earning?”

“He’s twenty-three. There’s time.”

“What? And go against the Beneventi way?” Don Lucchese leans toward me like he’s about to share a secret. “When Bastian was eighteen, he arrived at my Tuscan vineyard with the twins. Pretended to like my wine while he conned me into approving the Beneventi holdings. Bold as brass, even at eighteen, and always three steps ahead of everyone else.”

“I liked your wine well enough,” Bastian quips.

“You drink whiskey like it’s water. What would you know about good wine?” Don Lucchese chuckles. “Now women…”

I flinch.

Bastian speaks, saving me. “Once Sandro’s engaged, I’ll find appropriate work for him.”

Sandro’s response is swift. “I’d like to run New York.”