Page 4 of The Spare (The King Dynasty #2)

Chapter two

Meeting The Don

One year, three months later. Los Angeles, California.

S hifting my body weight in the back seat of the armored car next to my private security guard, I put my unease at the back of my head, scrolling through my phone aimlessly as we make our way to the Scognamiglio mansion.

I wasn't allowed to come on my own. Lucien Scognamiglio sent this vehicle for me, and I was heavily searched before I even got in. Lucien's accompanying guard did everything but stick his hand up my ass.

He's sitting in the passenger seat all innocent, like he didn't just take his sweet time learning my dick size.

I frown as a text comes through. Disappointment fills me as I see it's not Melody.

Hey bro, so guess what? -Henny

What? Mase

Lucien brokered an arranged marriage between his younger cousin and Joaquin ANYWAY! –Henny

I roll my eyes, and call him.

"Hey, Mase-"

"Sooo, does that fucking mean I don't have to do this?" I interrupt him.

The driver and security guard both turn their heads to glance at me in the rearview mirror.

"What?" Hendrix snaps. "No. He summoned you. Take that meeting, Mason. Besides, you're already there."

I hang up on him, and turn off my phone, glancing up and arching a brow as we roll onto a massively secluded gated property. Driving under palm trees that flank a double gate attached to an eight-foot tall fence, I'm pleasantly surprised when we are suddenly transported to Tuscany, Italy.

Cypress trees and raised gardens juxtaposition sunken gardens with granite fountains. Birds fly around, and to be honest it's nothing like how I'd thought a mafia don would be living. Where's the guard dogs, and barbed wire fence with- oh…

There's a couple men walking the perimeter of the fence with AK-47s, speaking discretely into walkie talkies. My eyes rise to see another man hidden in the trees.

I only see him because we're driving damn near under him, but he's there.

We don't go to the front; rather we pull around the side of the house, through a stone archway leading to a separate entrance.

Two intimidating men with guns flank the walnut door.

The driver jumps out and opens my door, and I give him a nod of thanks as I step out onto the cobblestone drive, jerking the lapel of my tailored suit jacket.

I pull out my cigarette tin, packing it and then lighting one quickly. Whoever this man is can wait a minute for me to chill out before our meeting. When I'm done, I put the half smoked cigarette back into my tin and then nod at the guard. Ready.

One of the guards opens the door wordlessly with an impassive look on his face.

Pausing just inside the threshold, I cast a curious look around the courtyard, seeing more guards in the shadows.

My ears prick at the muted sound of a walkie talkie coming from somewhere in the heavily landscaped garden about a hundred yards away.

Turning back to the door I walk on in. A different guard on the inside leads the way, and one trails me as we make our way deeper into the home.

I wish I could say I'm impressed by the interior, but I'm not.

Years of mansion parties, lavish vacations, and having access to untold wealth has worn down my ability to find pleasure in these things, but I guess it's a good space, considering. Tasteful.

Taking stock of my surroundings, I keep my expression impassive at the obviously expensive art on the walls, eyeing priceless vases that are scattered about in aesthetically pleasing places on the floor.

The walls are stucco, the sconces are dark pewter, the floor is terracotta, the chunky beams are exposed.

Tick, tick, tick. I mentally check through the list of stereotypical features found in Italy.

This one sure enough fits the bill, but to top it off, several maids scurry around, trying but failing to be discrete.

I keep my gaze averted from theirs. It all comes with the territory of wealth, mafia or not, and it does much to make me feel like I'm at home, lending me what I believe is a false sense of security.

I'm ushered though another wooden door, and into a study where Lucien Scognamiglio sits behind his desk, flanked by two security guards. The ones that brought me through the house retreat, stationing themselves just outside the opened door.

"Mason King," Lucien drawls in a lazy voice, looking up from his stack of papers. He throws down his pen and slides the stack to the left of him, gesturing to one of the three leather seats on the other side of his desk. "How are you?"

I cross the room taking the one in the middle, directly across from him, crossing my legs and settling back in the seat, not offering my hand.

To put it mildly, I'm not exactly pleased that I'm to be summoned like a fucking dog.

"I'm a little shocked that you're not sequestered in some stone castle somewhere, Scognamiglio," I respond wryly.

I can't help my tone. A few minutes in this man's presence won't cure me of a lifetime of obligation, forcing me to adopt bored, aloft mannerisms that I can't shake no matter how much behavioral therapy I've attempted .

He chuckles, sitting back himself and not offering his hand either. I note the amused expression on his face, and he tilts his head curiously. Obviously assessing me just like I'm assessing him.

So assess we shall.

"I have almost one hundred men on the property at all times, Mason," he says.

"I come out of pocket in order to appear as harmless as possible to the outside world when I'm out and about.

But trust and believe, no one is getting on my land unwanted.

If they do, they come to me with a bullet in their skull, because I'm not the type to ask questions. "

I nod my head, glancing around his room before even going so far as to look over my shoulder, being overtly obvious about how I'm judging his place. However, there's not a flaw to be found.

I like it.

It's nothing like Father's study. It's a nice set up.

Intimate, comfortable, and warm. Another surprise, because according to what I've observed so far, Lucien seems sort of like me: not fussy about being overly lavish or pretentious.

My interest in him is piqued; however, I don't let that be overly obvious either.

I keep my head turned, driving home how thoroughly I'm assessing his dwelling.

A man's home is a reflection of himself, you see.

A bar with sparkling crystal glasses and decanters sits adjacent to us.

Top shelf liquor fills a miniature cellar within the bar with a tasteful, yet sparse selection informing me he's a picky drinker, and the clear window pane beyond shows me a rather pretty view of the landscaping on the East side of the grounds.

"I'm sure you must also pay a shit load for gardeners," I say, bringing my gaze back to his before falling on an interesting ceramic of a rabbit on the fireplace mantle behind him.

It's not a professional piece; no, it looks like something a kid would put together.

The ears look funky, too. I frown, because it looks so out of place. "What's that?"

It's the ugliest thing I think I've ever seen.

He turns to clock what I'm talking about. "Oh, that?" He turns back around, rubbing his hand near the base of his thumb. "That's a rabbit. To remind me to be humble, you see."

I raise a brow. "Can mafia Dons be humble? Is that even in your DNA?"

Lucien barks out a laugh, and the guard behind him to his right even gets a shadow of a grin; however, he kills it quickly. "Well, a good Don knows when to be humble because there's a time and a place for everything, Mason. As you'll soon know."

I roll my eyes. "How do you know I don't already know that? Don't be an assumptive dick already. I just met you."

Lucien pauses at my words, quickly hiding a shocked look before chuckling. "Hm," he says. "You're interesting, Mason."

"Thanks, I'll choose to take that as a compliment."

"Good, because it was." He clears his throat, leaning forward and swiping a hand through his thick brown hair.

He's not too much older than me, roughly mid-thirties, maybe.

Little lines grace the corner of his eyes when he laughs; other than that he looks like he could have stepped off the runway with Teresa's husband Brody.

He's got a distinctive nose, though not too big, and chocolate eyes that feel warm, but I know better. He's a Don for a reason.

"I'll dare assume your brother told you why I wanted you here?" he asked, his eyes roam my face tightly. Curiously. Never as curious as I am, though.

"Si. He mentioned you wanted me to be your new finance guy. But you took long enough to call in your favor. "

None of us are pleased with him regarding that.

He nods. "Yes. I need you to handle the finances of my business."

"Money laundering." I knew it.

"No," he corrects me quickly. I frown at his answer, confused.

"Stacking your stocks?"

Lucien smiles. "What a lovely criminal mind you have. No," he says. "I need you to take financial control of my non-mafia business dealings and make a name for me outside of-" he waves a hand around the office, "this."

I shift in my seat, rubbing my fingers along my jaw as I just stare at him. "And your stocks?"

"Correct."

"How many businesses?"

"Four. One art business, two jewelry-"

I grunt, because jewelry is what made the King name; however, no one owns a jewelry business, much to my father's discontent. That's what he thought Teresa would get into, but she steered towards fashion instead.

"And a few nightclubs," he finishes.

"And you don't want me involved in the actual day to day dealings of your criminal organizations?" My tone drips disbelief, laced with a touch of confusion.

"No." He gifts me with that smile again, making me uneasy. "Unless you want to, that is. But no pressure."