Page 106 of Dirty Mafia King
“You’ve always been the smartest of the lot, Bastian.”
“You taught me well.”
The old man blinks, my kind remark hitting home. Fuck, I’ll be happy if he lives past one hundred.
“Construction’s begun on the Riverview Casino.”
He claps his hands. “Right on schedule, eh? Sandro has your passion for moneymaking. Aren’t you glad you gave the boy a chance?”
“It was the right decision for everyone,” I respond carefully. Sandro always does the right thing—that being whatever the fuck I demand. His desire to please me supersedes everything else. Yeah, I’m proud he’s stepped up, and I’m an asshole for not praising his accomplishments. But he’s wound so tight, one day he’ll snap, tell me to fuck off, and then begin making decisions independent from mine. It’s what I did to my incompetent father. It’s what Renzo’s fought to do for years, marching to his own drum until I marched his ass straight to rehab—not that it’s done any good yet. Hard to say what’s worse: a sulky, despondent Sandro or an off-the-motherfucking-rails Renzo.
One day, they’ll recognize tough love is stilllove.
“Any word on Atlanta?” the old man asks.
I duck my chin so he doesn’t see my frown. “No date yet.”
Don Lucchese grunts. “What the hell is holding him up?”
“Dante’s not with you in Italy?” My men on-site down south informed me Dante was in Italy. An impromptu trip I know nothing about but assume was a family affair. Now, I’m thinking otherwise.
Why is Dante Lucchese in Italy?
Don Lucchese covers for him. “I bet it’s a surprise.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Like me, Dante has control issues. Surprises in any shape or form are not his thing. I took him under my wing. Shaped him into a capable man worthy of being my right hand when I take over the Twelve Famiglie. So what bullshit is this?
“Will this do?” Don Lucchese stares wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the camera and pretends he’s surprised.
“The ladies should think twice about visiting you.” He cackles while from my lap I text my contacts in Rome about Dante. “How’s wine season going?”
“Goddamn global warming is killing me. Land’s dry, even for grapes.” He pauses. “We should be investing in salt water conversion equipment. Plenty of ocean water, right?”
“Desalination equipment.”
He grunts. “Whatever the hell you want to call it.”
The Middle East is ahead of every other world region in water distillation processes. It’s expensive, and a poor monetary investment. Doesn’t mean I won’t toss money toward a good cause. “I’ll look into it.”
“And how’s our Michelin chef?”
“Nonna Rosa’s in Italy.”
“Alessia.” He chuckles. “The sweet girl shackled to a kitchen chair yet while she cooks for you?”
Perceptive bastard. No wonder he’s retained power for years. Thoughts of shackling Little Miss Give-You-All-My-Firsts—to a kitchen chair, kitchen island, my bed, office desk, fucking Red Room spanking bench—have become my obsession. She’s the pretty unicorn my jaded heart never expected to desire. With my history, the little virgin won’t hold my interest for long. I can play with her, even fuck her. Claim my fatherly rights until I work her out of my system.
“She made the lamb dish,” I smoothly reply, giving nothing away.
“I’ve booked my flight to Rhode Island for the wedding.”
“Send me the details so I can send my man to pick you up at the airport.” My hand balls into a fist. I wish I never confirmed the date with him. But he fucking loves Alessia, and kept asking about it.
“Thank her for the weekly packages of cookies.”
I frown. What. The. Fuck? She’s baking for the old man? “Sure thing.” And it’s not like the cookies swam to Italy. Goddamn Freido’s involved, for sure. Ma che cazzo. She’s probably feeding my most violent men cookies from her palm like some docile beasts.
I simmer while Don Lucchese has a second coughing fit. I’m about to demand if he’s okay when suddenly my office door swings open.
