Page 63 of Mafia Don's Secret Twins

He gives me a wink.

Idly, I wonder what he’s doing here. He really doesn’t bring anything to the table, in terms of financials, so unless he has something up his sleeve…

He’s faking it.

Same as I am, I guess.

“Drakos,” the word booms out of Benicio Souza, who is sitting on a dais somewhat above us like a king holding court.

My eyes snap up to his.

He’s studying me. Benicio Souza looks weathered, but I’m not buying that he’s old or feeble, by any stretch of theimagination. He reminds me of a gorilla, one of the ones that’s covered in silver hair. He might sit up there away from us, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the second he needs to, he’ll be able to jump into action.

Hardened. He might be thick, but it hasn’t made him any less slow.

Or any less dangerous.

“It’s been a long time since I heard the name Drakos,” he continues.

I don’t say anything. I just stare.

“Who was your father?” he asks.

This is where I have to play it close to the chest. While Marco suspected that it is the Drakos family whose blood runs through my veins, he doesn’t have confirmation.

And we don’t have a name, either.

“Do you care about my father that fuckin’ much?” I respond.

Marisol’s eyes widen slightly, and Benicio’s gaze gets hard. “You speak like an American.”

“Grew up in New York.”

“Hmm,” Benicio says, his head tilting as he looks at me like I’m fuckin’ steak on a plate. “That is interesting, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t come here to be entertainment,” I snarl.

The other contestants are watching with interest now. Volkov, the Russian, is frowning at me.

Johnny turns to the guy next to him. “You Luca Costa?”

“Si,” Luca says in Italian.

“I think I fucked your sister once. When she was here on her study abroad,” Johnny says with a wink.

In a heartbeat, Costa’s face goes beet red.

He stands and curses in Italian. He takes a swing at Johnny, who ducks it neatly. The chairs screech on the tile in the dining hall as all of us rise, and I go to Johnny’s back.

“Enough!” Benicio’s voice thunders in the hall.

We all freeze.

From wherever he’s been hiding, I see Andrei Moretti slink forward. He’s dressed like fucking James Bond, all black, with a gun belt and multiple holsters banding across his body.

I have no doubt that each one of them holds a knife, or something even more sinister.

“No speaking. No fighting. You are not here to settle old feuds or discuss sisters,” Benicio glares at Johnny.

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