Page 1 of Dirty Mafia King
CHAPTER1
BASTIAN
No one expected me to drag a hooded man out of a rental car trunk.
Silence descends over the mafiosi circled beneath the abandoned interstate bridge on the outskirts of Rome.
My father was the Beneventi with the hard-on for blood. A coldhearted bastard who killed first, then asked questions. I’m the fucking visionary. The no-bullshit, no-mercy businessman who’s made the Twelve Famiglie rich. Still, every now and then, I’ll snap a man’s neck and remind these pricks whose blood runs through my veins.
“What is this about, Sebastiano?” Don Lucchese, our capo di tutti capi, demands.
“Securing our investments.”
Everyone waits for Don Lucchese to lose his shit. The old-timer prefers we air our grievances his way, with the Twelve Famiglie assembling in neutral territory abroad to discuss issues calmly, with minimal violence or surprises. Everything laid out on the table, all diplomatic and shit. As if there isn’t a man present without a gun locked, loaded, and tucked inside a waistband, waiting for the slightest provocation to fire.
I shove the man into the circle, and he falls to his knees as my gaze roams over the faces of the most dominant capos besides myself: a smirking Luca Ricci, Vegas, my closest ally; an expressionless Xavier Moretti, Chicago, whip smart yet young; a scowling Matteo Lombardi, West Coast, a capo with a temper and who’s arguably my biggest rival; and a wide-eyed Bible Belt Benny Manocchio,guiltyas all fuck.
I skip over the lesser men, and my sons, Alessandro and Lorenzo, to the reason we’ve assembled—Emilio Conti, the low-ranking capo who runs Atlanta.
Or ratherusedto run the region. As soon as the new East Coast Gaming Commission begins overseeing gambling regulations up and down the East Coast, I’ll be controlling the territory.
A fact no one but Don Lucchese is aware of yet.
Tempo scaduto, segaioli.
“I don’t have all day, Sebastiano,” Don Lucchese grinds out. “Who is he?”
I free the pillowcase and expose the man’s terrified face. “Don Lucchese, meet the newly appointed head of the soon-to-be-defunct Atlanta Gaming Board.”
“Hell yes, it’s on,” Luca murmurs.
Bible Belt Benny stares at his feet. Confirmation Emilio Conti isn’t acting alone.
Don Lucchese scowls. “What did you say?”
“This…” I slap the man on the back of the head. “…is the Atlanta Gaming Board’s new chairman.”
Conti’s uncle. His fishing trip buddy. An ace in the two-on-one poker match he and Manocchio believe is being played out between us.
Did they believe I was off fiddling my dick and unaware the former chairman had been shot? His corpse was still warm when I heard the not-so-surprising news. I anticipated pushback on the new East Coast Gaming Commission’s formation. Once it’s operating, the Atlanta Gaming Board becomes irrelevant, and the Beneventi holdings can shift south.
Most present are invested in casino expansion. Others, like Manocchio and Conti, turned down my offer. That conniving little worm Conti should kiss my dirt-crusted shoes for extending an invitation for him to play with the big boys. What does he do instead? He sabotages me by killing my man and replacing him with his uncle.
How stupid can these stronzi be?
I’ve waited a long time for this day. This isn’t a poker game, it’s a game of chess.
Checkmate, motherfuckers.
“This man’s been vocal about the new commission,” I continue. “Thinks the Atlanta Gaming Board is enough.”
“Do I need to draw you a map?” Conti bursts out. “Atlanta is Conti territory. And Georgia is—”
Manocchio territory.
Don Lucchese holds up his hand. “Emilio, you know this man?”
The blood drains from Conti’s face.
