Page 65 of Dirty Mafia King

“I know what you’re doing,” he grumbles.

“You should give the new commissioners a private tour once the drywall is up.”

“I already contacted them.”

I offer him an honest smile. “Good work.”

He nods, pleased by my compliments.

I might be a shit father, but I love the little shits. “About Tommaso, do as I say. Benny’s been running his mouth about payback for Atlanta. Don’t leave yourself vulnerable, capisci?”

“Capisci.”

My sons are soft and need toughening up. But they’re mine. And I always, always protect what belongs to me.

I stand, as does he. “How about a late lunch before the drive back to New York?”

* * *

Being the punctual tight ass he is, Sandro departs at two o’clock sharp, and I hole myself up inside my office, while my men conclude whatever face-to-face business they need to discuss.

But my focus has been hijacked, and by two fucking words—corrupt her.

I curse beneath my breath and grab my phone. This is goddamn ridiculous.

My thumb glides through my contacts for a solution, yet none interest me. I’ve grouped women by threes based on hair color. I had a good hit of Molly when the idea first struck—to find the tastiest combination of bush; vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. Believed it’d spice things up.

Except I don’t eat pussy, ever.

Women don’t color their bush, so finding a natural trio is harder than you’d think. Most women these days are bare, and by the time my playmates grow things out, I’m bored and moving on. Finding anyone with a neat bush for my bull to plow is like searching for an ebony unicorn.

A thought creeps in.The little voyeur has tight blond curls.Cute as a motherfucking button.

I toss the cell on my desk, disgusted. My head needs to be back in the game, and my needs addressed.

One of my parties will help. Change things up and recharge my bull.

But business before pleasure.

I open my computer to confirm Freido booked my flight to Los Angeles for Wednesday. Matteo Lombardi’s being a stubborn segaiolo. Ten percent? Cristo. The fucker holds a grudge like nobody else. Like it’s my motherfucking fault his daughter seduced my son or she was stupid enough to get caught. No proof it was Renzo, thank fuck. But Lombardi and I both know he had his filthy mitts all over her.

At least he wrapped his dick and wasn’t surprised by a doorbell that ended his rowdy teen years. Chip off the old block, if you discount the soft heart and hard drug use.

I rub a hand across my jaw. A huge scene where anything goes will take the edge off. Hell, I’ll dust off the key and open the Red Room. How long has it been since I played in there?

Whistling, I head to the kitchen in search of Freido.

Only to find Dante Lucchese. Eating my gelato out of the carton like an animal. And he’s so goddamn enthralled by something outside the window, he doesn’t hear my approach.

I come up behind him and, before he can react, snatch the carton from his hand, knocking the spoon to the floor. My irritation grows and then hits the ceiling—only a few spoonfuls remain.

“It was in the freezer.”

“My fucking freezer. My fucking food. My fucking gelato.” I’m itching to slam a fist into his perfect nose and ruin his movie-star good looks. “A morto di figa like you shouldn’t be eating ice cream if you aim to keep the housewives in Hollywood satisfied.”

Instead of responding, he nods toward the window. “She’s not so inhibited when no one’s looking.”

I shove by him, the carton joining the spoon on the floor, and look outside.