Page 62 of Mafia Don's Secret Twins

My heart is in my throat, and the sound of safety’s being clicked off of each gun onlymakes my nerves worse.

One leg, well clothed in a suit, emerges from the car. My eyes trace the line of the man’s body up, until they get to his face.

When I see who it is, my heart stops. I lose the ability to breathe.

Completely.

I make an effort to bring oxygen back into my lungs and I blink.

It can’t be.

I take another look. The tattoos covering his neck, I know. His eyes are the eyes I see in my children every day.

And they’re completely focused on me.

“Who the fuck are you?” Benicio snarls behind me.

Dino’s gaze never leaves mine.

“Bernadino Drakos,” he says. The name makes a murmur go around the courtyard.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Benicio barks.

The smallest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Dino’s mouth.

“I’m here to enter the competition.”

11

DINO

Inside the house,I do not eat anything.

Neither do the five other men around me.

There are plates in front of us, sure. But none of us are stupid enough to consume the food that Benicio Souza has in front of us.

Not tonight.

Besides, my eyes haven’t left Marisol. Not fucking once.

I can’t, for one thing. She’s fucking stunning.

It feels like some kind of cheap charade that he made her dress up in a long, sparkling dress. She looks like she’s going to the fuckin’ Oscars, not in the middle of a jungle in the home of a drug dealer and thug known the world over.

Her long, dark hair cascades over her shoulder in a wave of warmth. Her eyes are huge, the makeup around them accentuating their softness. Between that and her delicate features, she looks like some kind of fairy princess.

She looks like someone who inspires a man to beat his chest and go to war.

That’s what you’re fuckin’ doin, asshole.

I grit my teeth, my fingers clenching around the napkin in my lap.

I recognize some of the men around me. The Russian is one of the horde of bastards that stand to inherit some of the Russian organization, now that there’s been a power gap. I’ll have to tell Marco to get in touch with Stassi, who probably knows more about this white-haired douchebag than I do. There’s a Serbian, Pavlovic, and some guy I don’t know. Some guy who looks distinctly French, which sets my nerves on edge.

The French have a tendency to fight fuckin’ dirty.

I recognize the last man. Johnny Spinoli, a Long Island boy. His whole family was arrested in the big RICO purges of the 80’s and 90’s, and he and his cousin Vito have done some contract work for us before.

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