Page 105 of Dirty Mafia King
“If you establish a place within his life and are loyal, you’ll always be part of the Beneventi famiglia.”
Is Freido offering me advice?I draw in a breath. “We’re not discussing silverware anymore, are we?”
“No.”
I frown. “Then why ship me off to New York?”
Freido pauses in packing. “Who said anything about New York?”
My heart does a dance. “I’m not being sent to Sandro?”
Freido scowls, his face phantomlike, half moonlight and half shadows. “That’s where he should be sending you.”
“Then whereamI moving?”
“The casita has an electrical and plumbing issue.”
“Both at once?”
His expression pinches. “Yeah. An electrician and a plumber will be called.”
“How bizarre, right? Did someone sabotage the estate?”
“Not the estate. The casita.” He snorts. “Which is why you’re moving into the main house.”
“I am?” Excitement bubbles out of me.
“Immediately, per his directive.”
“And into Sandro’s suite?”
Freido releases a long, drawn-out sigh. “The guest suite in his wing.”
I clap my hands, eager to get moving. I close each suitcase, mindless that they’re half-full, and then I hurry toward the glass doors.
Before the electricity and plumbing can come on, and I’m informed this was all a twisted joke.
CHAPTER37
BASTIAN
My concentration is shit today, Freido’s words from last night running on repeat. “She’s settled in like she belongs here.” His smug face said it all, didn’t it?
I drag my fingers across my jaw.
You made a decision, now deal with it.
Glancing at my watch, I turn to the business at hand, and FaceTime Don Lucchese. I’m greeted by heavy coughing, then finally his face appears on camera. “You’re late,” he grumbles.
“How many cigarettes you smoke today?” I make light of his deteriorating condition. Pale face, glossy eyes, and thin, so goddamn thin. Yet even if I asked, the old man wouldn’t respond. Discussing health issues is admitting weakness, something no wise mafioso will do.
“Cuban cigars. A gift from Luca Ricci.”
“That right?” I casually reply. I spoke to my friend a few days ago. Luca never mentioned sending our capo di tutti capi fucking cigars. I make a mental note of it, then set the uneasy feeling aside. “Trying to kill you, is he?”
“Aren’t you all?”
I chuckle. “The Twelve Famiglie aren’t such greedy fucks, or you’d be six feet under. War means our joint ventures fall apart. It’ll hurt our pockets worse than the stock market crash.”
