Page 87 of Dirty Mafia Sinner

“He better be worth his weight in salt for stealing you away,” Mema chimes in.

“Look, Riley. We’ve got to get your grandmother to her doctor’s appointment. Can you call us tomorrow?”

Is she sick? “Are you okay?” I cautiously ask. When you lose a parent to cancer, a common cold can cause pure panic.

“Don’t worry your head, honey. Acid reflux—that’s all. They got pills for it.” She rolls her eyes, and I relax, knowing she’s fine. “But my medication ran out, and the pharmacy won’t refill my prescription without a checkup.” She continues on and on. If PopPop hates talking about the refrigerator, Mema loves dissing her medical insurance. I mute the mic and lower the iPad. “Can I call them tomorrow?”

“Three o’clock every day unless you’re busy pleasuring me.”

My lips curve and it feels strange. When was the last time I smiled from the heart?

I unmute the device.

“…and I called them three times. Each time, insurance gave me a different answer. So I hung up—”

“I’ll call you every day at three o’clock unless I’m traveling. Is that okay?”

“Call us anytime you want.” PopPop waggles his finger at me. “When you’re ready, we want to hear more about this guy.”

I nod. What else can I say?

Mema fiddles with the phone. “Goodbye for now, honey.”

“Wait,” I cry out before they disconnect. “I love you so much.”

“We love you too, honeybunch. Speak with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bye,” I whisper, and then their faces disappear.

I curl my legs into me, bend my head, and cry. Relief, sorrow, anger, fear—it all comes out.

When I finally lift my head back up, curious why Alessandro’s so quiet, he’s gone.

Without a snide comment or look, he left me alone with my tears.

CHAPTER 18

SANDRO

The heat comingoff New York City’s skyscrapers could roast a turkey. Jet lag doesn’t improve my mood. Neither does the bland Italian food I ordered for dinner. Even my luxurious apartment—complete with all the bells and whistles that please me—seems small and empty. One huge fucking pink bow, though, that’s wrapped around this shitshow is my visit to Rhode Island has been cancelled. Don Lucchese’s health has deteriorated, so while I’m stateside, my father’s visiting him in Tuscany. Word is Father left sweet little Alessia behind.

All the more reason to avoid Rhode Island.

“Mr. Beneventi.” My new Riverview construction manager races up to me with a fucking helmet in hand. “You need to put this on before we tour the site.” He’s a churchgoing family man, according to the background check, with a lot of false notions about what I can’t do. His concern is noted, and then ignored. I’d rather be hit in the head by a falling object than suffocate beneath this helmet.

I take it from him, and toss it over my shoulder.

He stares at me in horror.

Waving a hand, I gesture toward the newly framed building. “Let’s go.”

I allow him to lead me inside, and the tour begins. Despite the loss of my former manager, construction’s on track. My father will be pleased—isn’t that what matters most?

Was it obvious years ago that I’d become the Beneventi heir? One different DNA sequence in the twin gene pool that gave me brass balls and my brother a limp dick in need of medication to get hard? My father would often visit our playroom as kids. He filled it with every toy imaginable, but my favorites were the Lego sets. I’d spend hours assembling them, working out what fits and what doesn’t, creating something to its completion,controllingevery step. Renzo said I played with a stick up my ass. The shithead would steal into the room after I left and wreak havoc on my creations, ruining my hard work.

Even then, I was the son who put things together and Renzo was the son tearing things apart.

Riverview Casino was my father’s gift to me, a trade for my sacrifices. Unlike Dante’s Atlanta project, I delivered in spades. Riverview will bring in more money than any of our other ventures, and the Eleven will take notice. My reputation as Sebastiano Beneventi’s rightful heir will be indisputable. I’ll be the son my father can boast about.