Page 59 of Dirty Mafia Sinner
“Dante Lucchese is in Italy. Funny thing is, he never mentioned a trip.”
Dante Lucchese is my father’s right-hand man. He came as a package deal. His father became our godfather, protecting my brother and me from our rivals. And my father agreed to mentor Dante, teaching him book smarts along with street smarts.
“It makes sense he’d be visiting his father…”
“He was spotted in Catania, not Rome.”
I frown.Sicily?
“Who do we know in Catania,” my father demands, exasperated, “other than the Gallos?”
The Gallos are one of the Eleven and Italy’s oldest and most productive famiglia. My father built their stock portfolios and found rich-ass investors for their pistachio farms. Who would have thought a mafiosi could turn a legitimate profit selling nuts? We clean our money through their businesses, just like we do with the casinos. “Maybe Dante likes nuts?”
“You auditioning to be the next Will Ferrell, you little shit?” I can feel him shaking his head. “Can’t picture that strutting peacock on a nut farm in a Gucci suit.”
I almost grin, but too much is riding on this call. “Give me a week for my men to look into it.” I pause but am too impatient not to address the elephant on the line. “And that stranzo Conti?”
“We questioned his great-uncle. Word is he’s fled the country.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck. But no one that stupid disappears without a trace. Not unless he’s dead and a cleaner is used … Something to consider for the future. If Conti flew out of Atlanta, we’ll know. Same for New York—though that will take time.”
I consider my next words, surprised he’s sharing this much. “Don’t kill Conti’s uncle until Tommaso speaks to him.”
He snorts. “Like he’ll talk to your man but stay silent with mine?”
“Tommaso has a certain charm about him.”
“Look, you little shit. Don’t play this off like this is for my benefit. You want Conti. Understood.”
But does he? Does a man like him understand humiliation? Know how degrading it feels to have been duped by an attractive woman with sad green eyes and a huge motherfucking rack?
There’s a knock on the door.
“My men are here. If you have no further orders—”
“I do.”
I sigh. Of course the conversation will end on the mighty Sebastiano Beneventi’s terms. My fucking life revolves around those same terms. “Yes?”
“Hire a new foreman for Riverview. Seems your man has gone missing.”
The call disconnects. And I’m relieved the highly anticipated discussion about Ciro Ciglione’s murder was so brief,Ialmost missed it.
I take my seat and then straighten my tie.
A huff filters up from beneath my desk.
“You can’t keep me locked inside here all day.”
“Not just all day … until fucking infinity.”
Why in Christ’s name did I secure the cage beneath my desk? Work is impossible with the constant distraction. With her eavesdropping on sensitive conversations.
With her seated at crotch level. With the image of her covered in my come fresh material for my spank bank.
What did she call me yesterday?Twisted?
