Page 44 of Dirty Mafia King
Just as well.
An assortment of meats, pastas, cheeses, and breads are arranged on the table along with a pitcher of lemonade. I sip my drink and study Sandro from beneath my lashes. Hair newly cut into a short military-style buzz. Freshly shaven face. Designer shirt, designer tie, designer watch, and, although I can’t see them, designer shoes. He could work on Wall Street by day and be a hired mercenary at night.
His lips curve like he scored a point on his phone.
Only two places are set at the table. So I won’t be facing his father’s inquisition.
Disappointment mixes with relief.
“Is that what you typically wear?” Sandro doesn’t look up from his game. “My godfather likes leg.”
Isn’t Don Lucchese eighty-something years old? I look to the left, and then to the right, then ask innocently, “Do you see him?”
He scowls. “You can kiss this arrangement and your father goodbye if you don’t impress him.”
It takes great willpower, but I remain silent.
I’m marrying Alessandro Beneventi.
And hehatesme.
“Fucking hell.” He tosses his phone on the table so he can shoot daggers at me without distraction. “I’m stuck with a prim thing like you? Even your sister would’ve made a better match, been moreentertaining.”
His words hit a nerve. Another condescending jerk comparing me to my sister? How dare he. My self-control crumbles. “You’re nothing like Renzo. He’s considerate and caring.”
I press my lips together.
“And a pain whore searching for his next fix.”
“He’s your brother.”
“He’s weak. You spend five minutes together and think you can fix him? Well, you can’t. The things he’s seen, the things he’s done, his hurt runs so deep, there’s no digging him out.”
Shadows dull his blue eyes. Is he speaking about Renzo or himself?
“Weak attracts weak. I shouldn’t be surprised you found each other.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know me very well.”
His eyes skim over me. “Not much to know.”
What. An. Asshole. “So Renzo’s weak, and you are what? Important?” I snicker. “News flash: Sebastiano Beneventi is the only man worthy of everyone’s fear.”
Sandro flinches.
God, why am I exchanging barbs with him?
Disengage. Immediately.
Except, it’s too late.
His fist slams on the table, upsetting two dishes and the pitcher of lemonade. “Speak to me like that again, and I’ll make you suffer.”
“As opposed to the great joy and happiness you’ll bring to my life?”
He’s on his feet and charging around the table before I can escape. Grabbing my chair, he spins me around, and then gets in my face.
“Renzo’s gone. It’s you and me. So listen the fuck up if you have any sense of self-preservation. My men located your sister in Kyoto.”
