Page 57 of Mafia King's Surprise Baby

Then the war started, making us stick together even more. When the shit with my father happened, Mattia’s the one I turned to. He doesn’t know about the dementia diagnosis—no one else does except my grandmother—but his death, his loss, I shared it with my best friend.

Today, we’re thicker than ever.

Mattia agrees to meet me on the Upper West Side. He’s already there leaning against his car when my chauffeur—formerly my father’s—drops me in front of the brownstone Bruno lives in.

“What’s the matter?” he asks quietly as he reaches me near the stairs leading to the front door.

I shake my head softly. “Something feels off.”

He nods. “I got you, brother.”

I place a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks.”

More and more these past few weeks, I’m finding unfailing support in this man who doesn’t share my blood yet has given me his utmost loyalty. If aconsigliere—the one who provides wise counsel to a Don or a boss—didn’t have to be an older person or someone with more life mileage under his belt, I’d make Mattia mine. As such, he’s just my right-hand man at the moment.

I go up and knock on the door. Bruno opens, and the shuttered look on his face bides nothing good. A sliver of unease slithers up my spine as my mind clears and the rational side of me pops to the forefront. I step into the living room, Mattia behind me. It’s summer, so we don’t need to remove coats and hats in the foyer. I frown when I see the handful of men already seated on the sofas. They all stand up when I come in. With a wave, I bid them to sit down.

Mattia and I exchange a glance. Something’s afoot.

“Drink, Don Pellegrini?” Bruno asks.

I’m still powering on the two Scotches from home, though it’s not affecting my judgement. I shake my head, then peer at the men.

“Please, go ahead if you wish to,” I tell them as I sit in the armchair left empty for me.

It’s always a good idea to lubricate minds and occupy hands in tense situations.

I notice Bruno wince as a few hands raise for a drink. I’ve accompanied my father on meetings with his crews before. Healways encouraged the men to have a glass. So why is Bruno so uptight today?

“Speak,” I tell my enforcer. My tone is low, soft, though I’m sure he can hear the lethal undercurrent in it.

He nods solemnly. “Don Pellegrini… Leo,” he starts.

It’s never a good thing when a subordinate resorts to using their boss’s first name, especially when the boss hasn’t asked them to in the current situation.

“We, the men and I, are worried,” he says.

I narrow my eyes slightly on him. I need not say more—he takes it as his cue.

“The portside operations, they’re getting on our case, Leo. It’s becoming harder for the men.”

I want to smile, having figured out what game he is playing already, but I want to see how far this will go, how far he is ready to take this, how deep his head is up someone else’s ass.

“You have my blessing to deal with this as you deem fit, Bruno,” I tell him, then nod at thecapos—the captains of every crew under my command.

“There’ll be blood, Leo.”

“Yes. Theirs.”

He gulps. It’s hardly noticeable, but I was focused on him so intently, I saw it.

“I don’t want blood to be split,” he continues.

I smile a little this time. “Is Don Pellegrini’s enforcer getting soft in his old age?”

He’s hardly older than fifty-five. Still, the fact he’s lived this long in his position is a testament of how wily and resourceful he is. He’s the one who directs orders and operations for a Don, and kills for him, too.

“Hardly, Leo,” he says, tone clipped. “But there is an easier solution.”

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