Page 73 of Dirty Mafia King
His face flushes red. His temper’s notorious. You get Rambo or Jeffrey Dahmer, and sometimes an unpredictable combination.
“Say that again?” Pause. “She was caught stealing a woman’s grocery bags in a Whole Foods parking lot?”
Well shit. If little Elia Seraphina Lombardi doesn’t strike again. The girl was a handful at sixteen. Seems she hasn’t calmed down at all.
“Call Tony. Tell him to handle it.”
Lombardi slams the receiver into position, then stalks to the door. “The stress is back. Get your asses back in here.” He spins on me, like I’m responsible for his daughter’s kleptomania.
“Send that son of yours, Lorenzo, to Chicago. Keep his mind focused on business rather than sneaking around with girls he’s no business messing with.”
Cristo. Fucking this again? “They were sixteen.” And seven years later, I’m still dealing with the backlash. Truth is, I get it. If I were Lombardi, I’d keep the Beneventi men far away from the little wild card. “He kissed her, that’s all. If she told you any different, she’s lying.”
Just like I’m lying.
Fucking Renzo.
“Listen up, motherfucker. I had her tested. She was untouched before the visit and ruined by the time you Beneventis left. No one will want her now.”
I allow him the motherfucker insult, and calmly reply, “Virginity is overrated.”
My thoughts automatically shift to little Alessia’s tight cunt. Thinking about breaking her in has become an unhealthy obsession.
“Fuck you.”
Lombardi’s problem is twofold. Anger issues and a reckless daughter.
I can relate to the latter.
The two masseuses rush back inside.
“I think we’re done here,” he informs me.
Once Renzo’s out of rehab, I’m having the little shit neutered. “Not quite yet. We haven’t talked about your cars.”
That gets him. “My cars?”
“How many carsdoyou own now?” He’s been collecting cars for years. A real Jay Leno, only he prefers the latest gadgets.
One.
Two.
The vain asshole falls for it. “Twenty-one.”
“No shit?” I climb back onto the table, lie on my stomach, turn my head and cock an eyebrow.
His anger fades. “And four motorcycles. Three are Harleys.”
“A few antiques but most the latest models?” He owns a 1966 Mustang convertible, two ’70s Corvettes, and an ’80s Rolls.
“The four older cars are fun to drive on a lark. Like my house, I enjoy modern conveniences.” He pauses to nod at me. “Why? You looking to buy a new car?”
He didn’t stroll but jumped exactly where I want him. “Maybe,” I smoothly answer. “Or like everyone else, I’ll wait until prices drop.”
Open mouth, and the bait’s immediately snatched.
“What makes you believe prices will fall?” He’s curious, sensing—correctly—that I know something. “Prices could rise. Hell, everything’s up.”
