Page 72 of Dirty Mafia King
He nods. “She refused at first. Didn’t want to inconvenience me.”
“And you said yes,” I softly say.
He glares at me. “I’m an asshole, not a monster.” With a flick of his wrist, he shoots back his drink, then stands.
I swallow hard.
“I’ll need you in my kitchen, preparing my meals.”
Words escape me.Why me, rather than hiring a replacement?
“You start Friday. I’ll be away on business for a few days,” he tosses over his shoulder as he stalks by. “Make the lamb dish.”
Lord, he’s bossy. And there should be a quota on surprises per day. The dress. The trip. The lamb.
But no dirty talk.
No tormenting me.
He hovers in the doorway and rakes his eyes over me one last time. Then, he not only hits the quota for surprises, he blows it off the chart.
“My son doesn’t know it, but you’re going to make him a very happy man.”
CHAPTER26
BASTIAN
On Ventura Boulevard, my car passed a sign with Grace Kelly’s face and a quote: “Hollywood is holier-than-thou for the public and unholier than the devil in reality.”
The perfect city for a short-tempered, murdering devil like Lombardi, whose hair’s perfect and teeth straight and white, and who has a hot wife willing to do anything—or so she promised, whispering in my ear less than an hour after my arrival. An unholy proposition by a beautiful woman married to a monster.
Am I tempted? Yeah—but only because Lombardi deserves to be fucked over the same as he’s trying to fuck me over. Otherwise, she’s not worth the trouble or effort.
Flying to California just to piss off Lombardi isn’t on the agenda.
His house is ultracontemporary, like the mansions featured on television. Open concept, modern kitchen, massive fireplace, windows everywhere, and rooms galore. We’re downstairs, conducting business in a room that’s part gym, part spa. Drinking, smoking cigars, and getting our kinks worked out while we lie on side-by-side massage tables. If it weren’t for the company, I might actually enjoy this.
Both masseuses, on Lombardi’s order, listen to music through earbuds as they work. Careful, so very fucking careful, not to eavesdrop. Living in a city where affluent stars value their privacy, confidentiality agreements are as common as Botox. Not that I’m not careful with what I say. Not that Lombardi wouldn’t put a bullet between each woman’s brows if they overhear anything incriminating.
And here I joke about burying bodies beneath my golf course. This asshole likely has an endless line of them beneath the stars on Hollywood Boulevard.
“Four percent is more than Luca agreed to,” I press on. It’s a lie—my friends benefit nearly as well as my immediate family. But we’ve been playing this game all afternoon. Lombardi’s a businessman, like me. He’s done well for the famiglie, close but not better than I have. He believes he’s smarter. And that’s his downfall.
My masseuse pushes her elbow between my shoulder blades, and I groan. I’ve been wound up for days. Maybe I’ll build a wellness area as an addition to my fight club? Crack some noses, then get my back cracked?
I set him up. “Fine. Five percent and we’ll shake on it.” He won’t accept, just like I won’t commit to five.
“Sebastiano…” He shakes his head, taking the bait. “I really can’t wrap my head around what this joint venture into the Ohio Valley brings me aside from a measly percentage of casino profit. You’d have more luck with Moretti in Chicago.” He groans as the masseuse works on his hamstring.
I’m tempted to pump a bullet into his thigh for wasting my time.
A phone on the wall rings, interrupting us. “Can’t leave me alone for an hour, can she?” Lombardi snaps, then slides off the table and waves at the masseuses to leave.
They hurry out.
I grind my teeth. He may not respect me now, but he will by the end of the day.
“I told you not to interr— What? Arrested?”
