Page 86 of Wicked Rivals

“Our conversation isn't over. We’ll pick it up again tonight, in my room. I’m not going to marry Benedetta. And you are certainly no one's whore.”

Then I kissed her again, not allowing her to respond.

This time she tried to fight me, but only for a second, then her beautiful, soft body melted against mine. She kissed me back, pushing her hands into my hair, claiming me just as fiercely as I claimed her.

Val might not have fully accepted it yet, but her heart and her body knew she belonged to me.

It took about fifty minutes in the city traffic to reach the restaurant where Don Lordi waited for me.

As Jimmy pulled up in front of the building, I noted the red brick construction, no streetside windows, a striped awning leading up to the entrance, and potted Italian cypress trees framing the door.

I’d never been inside. It sat too far out of my territory.

“Could this guy be any more of a cliché?” Tony asked.

I double checked the mags in my pistols. Force of habit. They would take my weapons before I got beyond the vestibule.

“There’ll be cannoli on the table by his revolver,” I said.

We got out of the car, and I headed for the door with Tony covering my back two steps behind and two to the right. He understood the assignment.

As soon as we entered the first set of doors, two of Lordi’s men approached with blank expressions. They patted me down first, taking my phone and just one of my guns.

The lazy fucks.

I'd punish my men for that kind of mistake.

Either they were half asleep, or they had grossly underestimated my ability to threaten their boss.

A grave mistake for Lordi, underestimating me.

Tony received a more thorough pat down, getting stripped of his phone and all weapons other than his ankle piece.

Unlike my own men, Lordi’s guys apparently received no instruction to check below the knee.

Stupidly satisfied, the two of them led us through a dining room full of red chairs and white linen tablecloths to Lordi’s area in the back.

The restaurant echoed with emptiness, of course.

I’d expected a little more class once we reached the back, but it turned out to be just as fucking tacky. Old wood paneling on the walls, seats upholstered in either red faux leather or red velvet, tablecloths draped over three tables. Taper candles shoved into old Chianti bottles.

I never understood bosses like Don Lordi, those who got lost in mafia mystique, making it seem as if they belonged on the set ofThe Godfather.

Why play at being a mafioso when you were one? Why imitate a stereotype when you knew there was more to it?

Then again, maybe stripping away the ambience, the props, and the bad acting might reveal how Edgardo Lordi wasn't all that impressive.

At least the room smelled of good quality tomato sauce.

Well, surprise, surprise. Lordi sat with two others from the Commission, drinking wine and dining on prosciutto.

I approached the table without acknowledging the extras. They weren't important right now. Instead, I stared at Lordi's fat pock-marked face and jerked my chin up at him.

“What the fuck do you want?” I asked.

“Stefano Vignali, my boy, take a seat.”

He motioned to the empty chair at the table, a seat lower than the others. A little game to make me feel smaller than him and his companions. Only men who knew their power remained vulnerable stooped to using such cheap tricks.

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