Page 74 of Dirty Mafia King
I gesture to the masseuse to leave. She does, dragging her partner with her. I’ve Lombardi’s complete attention now.
“The New York Governor offered me some useful information. I’ll share it, under one condition?”
He frowns. “Depends on the condition.”
“The bullshit between us ends.”
He’s silent. But Lombardi wouldn’t own twenty-one cars or have a garage large enough to accommodate them if he wasn’t business-savvy. “Fine. This better blow my socks off.”
I smile. “Friends in Washington have told him it’s the perfect time to invest in American-made semiconductor chips. You know, the kind used in every fucking vehicle, truck, and God knows where else. You think we’re corrupt assholes? Every congressman and senator is investing in chips on Wall Street before the big news is announced.”
He spins on the table to face me.
Checkmate, asshole.
“A new bill is circulating. Trillions of taxpayer dollars will be invested into microchip production.” I thump the massage table. “And listen closely, motherfucker…” His eyes narrow, disliking the disrespect. Tit for fucking tat, you arrogant shit. “Guess where the three-billion-dollar plant will be built?”
His jaw drops. Yeah, smart but not nearly on my level.
“Ohio, motherfucker.” I roll four fingers into the air. “Four percent, and we have a deal.”
CHAPTER27
ALESSIA
Laughter rumbles from deep within my belly and escapes my lips in a rhythm of uncontrollable bursts. I’ve shed enough tears to fill buckets over the past few years, so it feels great to let go.
“There’s something wrong with the grip,” Zoey informs our golf instructor.
I clutch my stomach as another wave hits me. My friend’s golf ball lies lifeless in a divot, but her golf club—which, seconds ago, sailed through the air like a boomerang—rests on the grass a few yards away. Our golf instructor was nearly decapitated as the club sailed by. The poor man didn’t see Zoey coming and likely believed the biggest threat to his well-being on the Beneventi estate was the man inside the house. The horrified look the instructor gave Zoey has me in stitches. One glance at Zoey—who’s wearing a bright pink crop top that says, “I’ll drink another Arnold Palmer,” and matching pink high heels to play golf—and you’d know she was going to be a handful.
The poor guy is determined, though. Bastian hired him, so he must be the best around.
It’s a gorgeous day, and I’m in good spirits. Not because I’m a natural—like Renzo said. Not because I love this game. And especially not because Bastian has returned from his trip; that has nothing to do with anything. I’m having fun, something that’s been absent from my life for a while.
“Can you put tape on it so the club won’t slide out of my hand?” Zoey insists. A thick rubbery material is already at the end of each club. State-of-the-art material created for an expert grip. These clubs are the best on the market, or so our instructor has informed us.
The silly man insists on arguing with her. “Stop releasing the club after you swing.”
Zoey chews her gum for a few seconds, then blows a bubble. “It’s the grip.”
“You’re wearing gloves…”
I shake my head. Zoey is a classic pot-stirrer. She enjoys busting balls and getting her way, mostly with gullible men. The more they engage, the sillier she acts. It’s better than the social media video of a father running a lawn mower over his teenage son’s video games as he shouts the excuses his son gave for not having a job. This golf lesson has viral video written all over it.
But I only lurk online. Any interaction might raise questions. Why rock the boat? I’m happier than I’ve been. My situation’s improved. Upsetting Bastian will draw negative attention, when I’d rather please him.
Especially now.
He purchased these golf clubs and a laptop, as promised. Yet his generosity didn’t stop there. A room off the kitchen and a few doors away from Bastian’s office has been completely converted into a study for me.
The room’s tricked out, with a new Mac desktop computer, iPad, printer, desk and chair set, and more notebooks than I could use even if I took classes into my golden years. An expensive book with color photographs of the Italian Renaissance movement is on the desk. But it’s the painting on the wall that has me speechless. A beautiful oil painting replica ofThe Birth of Venus.
Not only does Bastian understand my passion for Italian art, he shares it.
One problem. Whenever I stare at the painting, I don’t see Venus rising but Bastian—out of the bathtub. Muscles rippling. Bathwater cascading down his gorgeous body. His bull thick and daunting.
I can’t be fooled by his generosity or my misguided lust.
