Page 109 of Dirty Mafia King
Save some forhim, he means. “Capisci.”
“Good. Now I’ve work to finish.”
I slip off the desk and hold up my bandaged finger. “Thank you for helping me.”
He grunts.
I pause. “Would you mind if Freido helped me roll pasta? I cut my pointer finger, and am right-handed—”
“He’s busy running errands.” His tone’s so sharp, I jump. “What time?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Have everything ready.”
I blink. “Wait,you’rehelping me make fresh pasta?”
He shrugs.
I don’t know how to respond. How many people get a taste of Sebastiano Beneventi’s sweet side? It’s a gift, a hard-won victory, because he clearly trusts me. I should be delighted. Except I yearn for more. Because he’s right, isn’t he?
What thrills the masochist within me is his dark side.
* * *
Three o’clock comes and goes, without Bastian’s help in the kitchen. Odd, because even if he’s toying with me, he wouldn’t break a promise or, God forbid, interfere with dinner preparations.
At three fifteen, men flood the house.
At three twenty, I’m stunned when one whimpering man is dragged outside.
By three thirty, all hell’s broken loose.
“What’s happening?” I ask Freido as he charges by.
He shakes his head in warning.
Alarmed, I abandon the pasta dough and wash my hands in the sink, then go to search for Bastian.
Guards block my entry into his office.
My heart sinks.
“Let her pass,” he commands. “I need to interview her, anyway.”
He gestures for me to sit, and I do so immediately. “Is it my father? Has he … done something?”
“Leave us,” he barks.
His men close the door behind them.
Bastian slams a fist on his desk, and I stiffen in fear. Yet I still manage to speak. “Tell me, so I can help you.”
“Can you contact Renzo?”
My lips part. “I can try.” I rip my cell phone from my pocket, then dial the nurse’s stolen cell phone number. The message I receive is the number’s no longer in service.
“He hasn’t contacted you?”
