Page 15 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“Say it.” I rise on my toes and get in his face. “We’re over. Give me that much.”

His jaw tics. One second passes. Two.

On three, he nudges me aside and exits into the hallway.

He couldn’t do it.

Damn him. Why didn’t he say it?

CHAPTER 2

SANDRO

“You end it?”

The backseat buckles beneath my weight as the waiting Cadillac purrs to life. This SUV is a reward from my father for a job well done, customized to my exact specifications—from the climate-controlled seats and leather-trimmed doors to the UL 757 Level-8 bulletproof windows.

The Riverview Casino project will be profitable in its first year, thanks to the strategic state tax incentives program I designed, recently approved by New York Governor Robert Amato. The Famiglie are eagerly awaiting their cut. After all, nothing breeds loyalty like a steady flow of illicit cash, and nothing impresses them more than securing a high-profile politician on our payroll.

Riverview is the first casino in the East Coast expansion plan. My father’s dominance grows as I dot every I, cross every T and carve a giantXthrough my life, paying the steep price for his ambitions. When you’re the heir to the nextcapo di tutti capi, Sebastiano Beneventi, everything comes at a cost—even control over your own future.

My fist tightens around the door handle. “I did what I had to do.”

Tommaso cuts me a disapproving look in the rearview mirror. My father threatened to kill my bodyguard, occasional driver, and sometimes best friend if he didn’t watch my every goddamn move. A threat Tommaso is taking seriously, considering how my father is on a murdering spree. Because of it, our famiglia is on lockdown. A risk that, tonight, I ignored.

“Took you long enough,” he comments.

I harden my gaze.

He shakes his head, and then pushes on with psychoanalyzing mine. “You defied an order.”

I don’t react, especially not to obvious bullshit.

His attention doesn’t falter. “To end it, right?”

I lock eyes with him, rage pulsing through my veins. I should be the son shooting coke up my nose like I’m the character inspiration forThe Wolf of Wall Street. Rehab beats this rigidly disciplined lifestyle any day.

It was never meant to be.

Months ago, in front of what used to be theTwelveFamiglie, my father ordered Renzo to execute Emilio Conti’s uncle. Conti, a low-ranking mafioso, thought he ruled Atlanta. The arrogant bastard secretly placed his uncle on a local gambling board, unaware it would soon be replaced by the new East Coast Gaming Commission, with good old Governor Amato at the helm and my father pulling the strings. My old man dragged Conti’s uncle out of a car trunk to expose the deception. Conti, that stupidcazzo, denied knowing the man. Aware all eyes were on him and waiting to see who’d come out on top, my father—ever the opportunist—signaled my brother to pull the trigger.

And Renzo froze.

So, I grabbed the gun and shot the bastard. From that moment on, I stepped into the shoes my twin was supposed to fill.

That sensitive shithead.

You’dthinkthat would have been enough to earn my father’s respect? But I have a better chance of capturing a lightning bolt. No matter what I do—turn a profit, murder,obey—it isn’t enough. I could be the next Thor, and he’d say I missed an opportunity to be Hercules. While my wild, wicked, overindulgent twin—the Joker, for sure—remains his favorite.

The SUV is a step forward. My old man not onlywillrespect me one day, but he’ll also scratch his head and wonder why it wasn’t always so. No woman—no matter how tempting her pussy or how exquisite her submission—is worth sabotaging my legacy. If not respect, I still deserve something for my sacrifices.

“I survived worse than you,” she said.

Clueless about who she was talking to and how insignificant she is in my life.

End things before anyone discovers the truth. “Right,” I mutter.

“You were in there a long time.”