Page 156 of Dirty Mafia King
I love Bastian, despite everything, despite my broken heart.
I approach Don Lucchese’s grave, then sprinkle the napkin’s contents onto his casket. “Rest in peace, Godfather.”
“What the hell was that?” Sandro demands once we resume our positions.
“Chocolate biscotti. His favorite.”
Sandro’s expression softens. “You’re too good for any of us.”
I catch sight of Bastian as the circle surrounding him parts. Even at this somber occasion, his sex appeal is undeniable. Tall and handsome in a dark suit that complements his features. Graceful in the way he scratches his neck and shakes his head. A man in full control of himself, and those around him. He overshadows these men in every way, doesn’t he? So big and commanding in nature. Is it surprising they respect him? Maseratis line the cemetery while men line up to speak with him. He’s boardroom executive, criminal mastermind, and ruthless killer all in one.
“Wipe your eyes.” Sandro hands me a tissue.
“Thank you.”
The sermon concludes, and Bastian gestures for us.
We both step forward.
“Not you. Just me.”
“Oh,” I utter, crushed. Why would my father-in-law include me in his business?
Sandro hesitates. “I murdered Emilio Conti, the man who kidnapped me. They’re going to want a recap of the gory details, something my father likely doesn’t want you to hear. Capisci?”
“I understand.” A shiver races up my spine. This is the world I live in, yet I still struggle with how these men can kill someone like it’s part of their job description.
“Be right back,wife,” Sandro calls out as soon as he reaches the group, drawing everyone’s attention. Acting very much like Renzo would act in this situation.
With a scowl, Bastian’s eyes brush over me before he turns back to the group.
My old nervousness returns. I’m still shy around most people, though not the Beneventi men. Not Bastian—I’m bold as brass in his company and bed. But everything’s changing, and nothing about my future’s clear.
I’m what, exactly?
Fresh air might relieve my sadness. I retreat in the opposite direction of the procession, passing the first car in a long line of them—a cherry red Maserati that costs a fortune—to climb a small hill with a tall shady tree at the top.
Halfway there, I notice a young woman standing beneath it.
I wave.
She doesn’t wave back.
She’s gorgeous, with deep red hair and a model-like figure. Dante’s girlfriend? Models and actresses love him.
“I’m hoping there’s a breeze up here,” I softly say as I approach her.
For several awkward seconds, her beautiful green eyes fixate on my hand before she raises them.
I fall back, shocked by her tormented expression.
“Are you Sandro’s wife?” she demands.
“Excuse me?”
“He called youwife.”
I stiffen. “I’m his fiancée.”
