Page 129 of Dirty Mafia King
“The kid with the big ears. Charlie’s boy.”
I grind my teeth. “Contact our men in New York and send them to Tribeca.”
“She’s not going to Tribeca, Bastian.”
“Then where is she going?”
“To Soho.”
Soho? “To Sandro’s place?” I demand. Relief washes over me, yet it’s temporary. And, although I know the answer, although I’ve dug this hole to lie in, I ask the question anyway. “Why the fuck would she go there?”
CHAPTER47
ALESSIA
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Sandro rakes his eyes over me in disbelief. Showing up at his swank Manhattan apartment unannounced has started off miraculously well.
“Am I interrupting?” I ask because his hair is rumpled and his chin is darkened by a five-o’clock shadow. He’s a hot mess.
More Renzo than the perfectly groomed man I’ve grown to despise. Still, I’m here for a reason. “Can I come in?”
Sandro curses beneath his breath as he spots Stephano lurking in the private elevator. Bastian’s man insisted he accompany me. A stroke of luck, considering how difficult entering Sandro’s Fort Knox would have been without him.
He shoves me aside and then, in a blink, clamps his fingers around my elbow and drags me inside. I look over my shoulder for help, but the elevator is closing, with Stephano hunched over inside.
“That’s who he sends to protect you?” Sandro flexes his knuckles. Wait … did he hit the poor kid? “You should have called.”
My lips part. Unbelievable. “You never answer.”
“My bad.” He stalks away, and I’ve no choice but to follow.
His apartment is incredible. Walls and walls of windows with panoramic views of the city. Real wood floors. State-of-the-art kitchen to the right, floor-to-ceiling fireplace to the left. His furnishings are expensive, and mostly white.
Took a page from his father’s design scheme yet flipped the color.
I scowl.Black, like Bastian’s heart.
“I’d tell you to take a seat.” Sandro falls into an oversized chair. “But then you’ll assume I’m interested in anything you have to say.”
I sit in a chair opposite him. “Like Iwantto be here.”
He waves his hand, and officially ties for number one on my “Most Despicable Beneventi” list. Yet he seems tired, exhausted actually, with dark bags under his eyes.
“Everything okay with the casino?” It’s a guess. Sandro will do whatever Bastian demands; haven’t I learned this lesson well? Making the Brooklyn casino profitable and working relentlessly to do so is taking its toll.
His eyes narrow. “What’ve you heard?”
“What do you mean?”
Several seconds pass with me under intense scrutiny until he arrives at some conclusion. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” I frown.
“I should have sunk a bullet into that kid’s gut instead of my fist.” He flexes his knuckles, confirming my suspicions. He did hit Stephano. Something’s wrong, seriously wrong.
“Oh my God.” My words escape in a rush. “Is Bastian okay?”
