Page 155 of Dirty Mafia King
“Well, if you don’t marry Alessia, you will. And I’ll haunt you from the grave for it.”
Suddenly, everything feels lighter.
“Someone better ask me who else I nominated before I drop dead with unexpressed glee.”
Dante and I make eye contact once more. “Who is Bastian’s competition?”
The old man cackles.
“Benny Manocchio.”
We stare in stunned surprise.
He covers his mouth with his hand. “Oops, I’m bad. Guess, in my weakened state, I forgot to remove a dead man from the ballot.”
* * *
The old man is dead by morning.
I take a walk out into his vineyard, and do what I never do—I cry.
CHAPTER57
ALESSIA
Istand next to Sandro at Don Lucchese’s grave. Dangerous men surround us, and not for the first time do I wonder if a Turkish prison might be a safer place. No one dares touch me—not with their new capo di tutti capi dominating our universe.
Early this morning, the Ten assembled with Don Lucchese’s lawyers. The nominees were read, votes were cast, and Bastian assumed power. Like Don Lucchese, he demanded the others sign a new terms of succession contract. “Democratic bullshit,” he informed Sandro and me on the drive to the old man’s gravesite. “The plush stock portfolios I presented just before the vote will keep them docile, obedient, and rich.”
I nuzzled against him as he stared out the window for the duration of the ride, and comforted him with my body. Without a word, he tossed an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in tight, though Sandro’s mouthed “What the fuck?” echoed loudly around the backseat. My fiancé shook his head, then looked out the other window, so much like his father that I almost liked him.
I’m thrilled for Bastian, I truly am. But a persistent thought destroys my own happiness. Do I get what I want, too?
Sandro nudges me in the side, forcing my attention onto him. “First impressions count.”
We stand side by side as mafiosi in expensive black suits toss dirt onto Don Lucchese’s coffin. Bastian’s on the opposite side and engulfed by his men while Sandro and I wait our turn.
The threat of rain hangs over the funeral procession, the air thick with humidity. I’m light-headed, the events of the last few days taking their toll.
“With that sad face,” Sandro continues, “no one will believe we’re the happy couple.”
I offer up a weak smile.
“I won’t disappoint him again.”
I search his tight expression. “You never disappoint him.”
He grunts in disagreement.
Although my inclination is to reassure him, I don’t. Now is not the place or time. Like Sandro said, everyone around us expects a happy couple. “Family first.”
Sandro nods. “That’s right.”
“Soon-to-behusband,” I say loudly, and take his hand.
He scowls, then quickly corrects himself. “Wife.”
We’re still holding hands when our time comes to pay our respects. Sandro approaches the grave first, while I withdraw a napkin from my pocket and unwrap it. Fresh tears fall as reality sets in. I liked my godfather, despite who he was and despite the circumstances.
