Page 127 of Dirty Mafia King
“Understood, boss. Not a trace.”
“Text me the safe house location once you secure one.”
I disconnect, and then drum my fingers on my desk. It takes a few minutes to reach a decision, then I pull the stock portfolios for every famiglia up online—portfolios I manage. A few clicks, and we all take a hit, starting two days from now and lasting for a week. Initiated—by all appearances—by losses in Atlanta and snowballing into other investments. One big motherfucking hiccup, which I’ll correct next week—and even double our profits—by heavily investing in made-in-the-US microchips. News will break on Monday about the government subsidizing the Ohio plant, and stocks will rocket. A few clicks, and everything will be golden again, except for Atlanta.
And Benny’s decomposing corpse.
The stupid fuck assumes he’s safe. A hit hasn’t carried out on a capo in two decades. A testament to Don Lucchese’s bureaucratic bullshit. Even though it’ll look like an accident, no one will doubt it was me.
My fingers dance across the keyboard before I close my laptop.
If I plan things right, by the time the famiglie discover they’re broke due to Benny’s foolishness, not only will hits be issued, but there’ll be a bounty on his head.
I stand. In the morning, I’ll explain to Don Lucchese how things are going down and ask his permission to terminate Benny.
A half hour later, Freido brings the car around while I shove weapons—some marked, others not—into a duffel bag. Once ready, I toss the duffel over a shoulder and head out.
Alessia waits in the foyer.
“Not now.” I stalk by her.
“What’s happening?” she persists.
“A wedding.” If she’s so goddamn pleased about it, let her plan it. “The venue better be booked by the time I return.”
* * *
The ambush plays out like a spaghetti western.
Benny marches into his Nashville music bar and heads straight for the Blake Shelton look-alike bartender, eager to question Blakey Blake further about his two companions. Benny believes I’m losing my shit at the Atlanta site, instead of listening to sad country songs, eating shitty Italian food, and waiting for him to show.
For our bird’s-eye view above, we watch Benny pull Blakey into an office, doing exactly what I hoped he’d do.
Inside and outside, my men are pricking necks right now, injecting Benny’s boys with so many horse tranquilizers, Kentucky is crying. I won’t kill them and make more enemies. When it’s all over, they’ll understand I spared their lives—or the ghost of Sebastiano Beneventi did. While Benny’s men go nighty-night, most of mine will ride off into the sunset, cowboy hats pulled low.
We wait until the music bar is empty before turning this western into a horror movie.
Blakey Blake dies first; a quick bullet to the temple was his deal for helping us. We take his wallet, and toss a gun registered to a Nashville man outside the back door into the alley.
Wide-eyed and hog-tied to the floor, Benny panics. Maybe he’s smarter than I give him credit for? I prowl forward, days of untamed tension spurring me on. The beating I already treated him to does nothing to ease it.
He rolls back and forth, squealing through the cloth shoved into his mouth.
I signal for Freido to remove it. Let’s hear what he has to say.
He spits blood, then spreads his venom. “They won’t let you get away with murdering me.”
I kick him in the kidney. “You worried about me, you stupid figlio di puttana?”
“You think you’re smarter than us.” His eyes gloss over as he struggles to stay conscious. “You deserve what’s coming.”
Freido and I make eye contact.
And what would that be?
Is it Dante? Would he recklessly ally himself with the likes of Benny? I mean, why isn’t he here? What’s so goddamn important in Italy that he sneaks off and abandons his responsibilities? It’s out of character. He’s level-headed, cunning even.
And untouchable.
