Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

SANDRO

“You end it?”

The backseat buckles beneath my weight as the waiting Cadillac purrs to life. This SUV is a reward from my father for a job well done, customized to my exact specifications—from the climate-controlled seats and leather-trimmed doors to the UL 757 Level-8 bulletproof windows.

The Riverview Casino project will be profitable in its first year, thanks to the strategic state tax incentives program I designed, recently approved by New York Governor Robert Amato. The Famiglie are eagerly awaiting their cut. After all, nothing breeds loyalty like a steady flow of illicit cash, and nothing impresses them more than securing a high-profile politician on our payroll.

Riverview is the first casino in the East Coast expansion plan. My father’s dominance grows as I dot every I, cross every T and carve a giant X through my life, paying the steep price for his ambitions. When you’re the heir to the next capo di tutti capi , Sebastiano Beneventi, everything comes at a cost—even control over your own future.

My fist tightens around the door handle. “I did what I had to do.”

Tommaso cuts me a disapproving look in the rearview mirror. My father threatened to kill my bodyguard, occasional driver, and sometimes best friend if he didn’t watch my every goddamn move. A threat Tommaso is taking seriously, considering how my father is on a murdering spree. Because of it, our famiglia is on lockdown. A risk that, tonight, I ignored.

“Took you long enough,” he comments.

I harden my gaze.

He shakes his head, and then pushes on with psychoanalyzing mine. “You defied an order.”

I don’t react, especially not to obvious bullshit.

His attention doesn’t falter. “To end it, right?”

I lock eyes with him, rage pulsing through my veins. I should be the son shooting coke up my nose like I’m the character inspiration for The Wolf of Wall Street . Rehab beats this rigidly disciplined lifestyle any day.

It was never meant to be.

Months ago, in front of what used to be the Twelve Famiglie, my father ordered Renzo to execute Emilio Conti’s uncle. Conti, a low-ranking mafioso, thought he ruled Atlanta. The arrogant bastard secretly placed his uncle on a local gambling board, unaware it would soon be replaced by the new East Coast Gaming Commission, with good old Governor Amato at the helm and my father pulling the strings. My old man dragged Conti’s uncle out of a car trunk to expose the deception. Conti, that stupid cazzo , denied knowing the man. Aware all eyes were on him and waiting to see who’d come out on top, my father—ever the opportunist—signaled my brother to pull the trigger.

And Renzo froze.

So, I grabbed the gun and shot the bastard. From that moment on, I stepped into the shoes my twin was supposed to fill.

That sensitive shithead.

You’d think that would have been enough to earn my father’s respect? But I have a better chance of capturing a lightning bolt. No matter what I do—turn a profit, murder, obey —it isn’t enough. I could be the next Thor, and he’d say I missed an opportunity to be Hercules. While my wild, wicked, overindulgent twin—the Joker, for sure—remains his favorite.

The SUV is a step forward. My old man not only will respect me one day, but he’ll also scratch his head and wonder why it wasn’t always so. No woman—no matter how tempting her pussy or how exquisite her submission—is worth sabotaging my legacy. If not respect, I still deserve something for my sacrifices.

“ I survived worse than you, ” she said.

Clueless about who she was talking to and how insignificant she is in my life.

End things before anyone discovers the truth. “Right,” I mutter.

“You were in there a long time.”

I raise a brow. “You asking for better compensation for your time?”

“No.” Pause. “Just saying, I was surprised.”

“Surprised?”

“This isn’t your typical style.”

Hardcore is what he means. I get off on dominating my partners in every way imaginable. Bondage. Breath-play. Kinky scenes, where the balance of power always leans my way. Yeah, I fuck my partners; it’s the reward after intense play. My cold demeanor even translates outside the bedroom into my daily life; my assholery is that legendary. What I don’t do are sleepovers, cuddles and motherfucking kisses. Make them beg, make them relinquish control, and after I’ve had my fill, leave. I’m notorious for it.

I never make repeat visits just to hear her sweet voice.

“If you want a blushing innocent,” Tommaso persists, “you can get that in Rhode Island.”

I glare at him, and his eyes flash—he knows damn well he’s six seconds shy of my fist in his face. The bullshit reminder must be payback for my making him wait in the SUV all night. “Let’s get out of here.”

He doesn’t move.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Your apartment is secure. You can bring her back to Soho.”

Just the idea makes my suit unbearably warm. Suddenly feeling suffocated, I unbutton the collar, my grip on my thoughts softening as my cock hardens at the suggestion. Her tied to my bedpost. Her tight cunt milking my cock. Her glazed green eyes bright with wonder.

I push down the emotions. “Easy pussy. I’ll find a replacement once shit’s settled.”

“Right.”

“Just drive.”

Tommaso shifts the Cadillac into gear, and we pull away from the curb. I scowl at my muddy shoes. I left her building using the back door, avoiding the camera I discovered in the front entrance—filming my every goddamn move until I wizened up—then cut through the adjacent yard and exited onto the street around the corner, where Tommaso was waiting. He usually parks on her street, but with the larger new SUV, parking is easier a block over.

“For what it’s worth, I liked her,” he informs me. A man who cage-fights for fun and beats the living crap out of men for money. His father worked for mine, and we’ve known each other since childhood. Never once has he expressed liking anyone or anything.

I flex my fingers, the memory of her rich auburn hair—wound around my hand while her soft whimpers fill the air —flashing through my mind. Everything innocent in the world wrapped up by my darkness.

“All your likes should be focused on pleasing me.” Shifting, I remove my suit jacket and toss it onto the seat. A scrap of red silk falls free. I immediately scoop it up and roll the material in my palm. “Know what else I’d like you to do?”

“No, boss.”

A heavy weight pulls deep inside my chest as I stuff the thong back inside my suit pocket. “Never mention her again.”

Silence descends as he turns the corner and then stops at a red light at the intersection of her block.

Frustrated, I slide the jacket onto a coat hanger, but as I shift positions, movement flickers down the street.

Two men, midblock, on the sidewalk outside her building.

“See them?” I demand.

“Yeah. It’s a big fucking city with a lot of people. Probably nobody.”

I don’t miss the doubt within his tone. As we watch, the men climb her stoop and disappear inside.

The fuck?

“Turn.”

“Boss, we’re in lockdown,” Tommaso warns, as if I need reminding. “We should head back to Soho until the all-clear.”

I push open the door and jump out of the SUV.

“Shit, Sandro. Wait.”

I storm down the block and reach for my gun. Except it’s wedged into the backseat cushion where I left it earlier—because I didn’t want to alarm her.

Goddamn it. Amateur move. Another reason I should have stayed away.

The SUV jumps the curb and then cuts me off on the sidewalk. The passenger door flies open. “How about we drive by and then around once more? Check the video feeds before we charge inside?”

I curse beneath my breath. Tommaso’s right. The famiglia is on lockdown after my father took a chain saw to a rival capo. Better to know what the situation is before going in blind, especially now. Besides, my man replaced the shitty lock on her door for the same high-security one I’ve on my apartment door. Fort fucking Knox. No one is breaking in. I climb back into the passenger seat.

“Glad you actually listened,” Tommaso mutters.

The drill is familiar because we’ve completed the same routine each visit. A quick drive past her building to assess neighborhood activity and take plate numbers, before we circle the block, then run those numbers while pulling up video feed from the hidden cameras I had installed.

Weeks ago, Tommaso ran a background check on the LLC that owns the building. A group of investors, who came up clean. No mafiosi connections. Nothing off. Flippers looking to turn a quick profit, though progress on the building is slower than shit. He wanted to dig deeper, but I said it was a waste of time. What was the point since I was ending things?

Problem is addiction runs in the family. My father’s addicted to power. Renzo’s addicted to excesses and extremes, be they sex, drugs, or motherfucking rock ’n’ roll.

And I’m addicted to her.

Fuck.

“Lights on in a third-floor unit,” Tommaso comments, pulling into the same spot we vacated minutes ago. “Your girl said the construction crew has been knocking around the unit beneath hers, right?”

“It’s Saturday morning, asshole. No beer-belching construction workers are on site this morning. If they are, I’ll hire them on the spot.” I run my hand across my chin. “You check the feed?”

“Not up yet.” He glances at me. “Your call.”

My father says good instincts make for good decisions. Renzo’s accepted this advice as a challenge to prove him wrong, instinctively reaching for highs through poor decision-making. But I learned the hard way my father’s right. The day I shot Conti’s uncle, I ignored instinct, and allowed my godfather—our capo di tutti capi—to fill my cup with wine from his estate. “In celebration of your first kill,” he boasted, slapping me on the back, then praised me for having the balls to do it. “Hai un bel coraggio, mio figlioccio.” I was blinded by my godfather’s praise, so much so I got piss-ass drunk and missed the most important meeting of my life.

My destiny was mine , up until that point.

“Drive around the block once more.”

Hand on the wheel, Tommaso does as directed, fiddling with the feed as he drives. When we turn the corner back onto her street, the app finally loads.

I fall forward as Tommaso slams on the brakes. “Shit.”

My gaze drops to the video. Two men are barreling down the stairs side by side. In suits.

A pit forms inside my stomach.

“And we’re out of here,” Tommaso exclaims.

My hand finds the door. “You think?”

“Yeah, I think. Mafiosi, for sure.” We glance up at the same time, just as the two men are racing from the building. “Count yourself lucky they missed you.”

Shit … Riley …

His fingers clench around the gearshift.

“No. Wait.” I take out my cell, press her number, and thrust the phone at him. “Warn her. Tell her to get out, and to use the fire escape. Capisci?”

“What?” Confusion fills his expression. “Are you fucking insane…”

Ignoring him, I grab a gun from the glove compartment, then push the door open and jump from the SUV.

Why would those two goons run from her building after being inside for five minutes? The answer’s unclear. What is clear is there’s no good reason for them to visit her building on a fucking Saturday morning, and minutes after I left.

I’m almost to her building when everything turns to shit. Bullets ricochet off the pavement by my feet, coming at me from behind. With a glance over my shoulder, I spot my SUV idling diagonally across the street and blocking a white van trying to drive around it. Men in suits swarm the street, using my fucking vehicle for target practice.

No way, motherfuckers.

I spin and fire, hitting two men in the chest.

“Found him,” someone behind me shouts. “He’s here…” I pivot and shoot him in the head, shutting him up permanently.

My body tenses. This is an ambush.

And I fucked up.

Enraged, I start shooting at random. Killing as many men as I can, before I’m overtaken and slammed to the pavement.

A vicious beating ensues, but I give as good as I get. Every dirty trick I learned as a teen I execute with relish. Broken noses. Two fingers jammed into a man’s eye sockets. I even rearrange a stronzo’s balls and dick.

Every man is out for the knockout.

Except one.

Through the curses and flesh hitting flesh, I hear a click, and then through the blood, I stare up at a barrel.

Fucking terrific. This is how I’m going out? Before my goals, my ambitions, my desires are fulfilled? Before I can step out of the great Sebastiano Beneventi’s shadow?

I disobeyed an order by coming here last night. Was it worth it? Her eager smile. My dirty hands all over her. So innocent. So corruptible.

So over —it had to be.

“Go on,” I taunt. “Shoot.”

“You were supposed to be dead.” He grins.

This is it.

BOOM.

The ground shakes, and a plume of dust fills the sky. The man drops his gun, and it bounces on the sidewalk near my head. I grab it, and then shoot him in the stomach, his expression filled with surprise.

I stare at the plume, trying to make sense of it.

And then, it clicks.

Ah, fuck. Riley.

Men grab me. I’m dragged from the sidewalk into a white van.

I spring to my feet and lunge at the driver as he accelerates.

Something hits the windshield … not something, someone.

Tommaso.

He holds on but loses his grip when the van takes the corner. He slides off the hood and out of sight.

My vision clouds as I’m wrestled to the floor.

It was her building that exploded.

Riley.

Please tell me you did as you were told.

RILEY

I drift in and out of sleep until my cell phone rings.

The clock reads 6:30 a.m. Too early for Ciro to be calling in a panic. My grandparents and friends are asleep. Aren’t telemarketers prohibited from making calls this early?

Fear has me scrambling for my purse. If this is some sort of family emergency … My hand shakes as I dig it out and then answer it before the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Listen carefully,” a harsh voice says. “Exit your apartment using the fire escape. Leave now, or you’ll die.”

Disconnect.

I stare at my phone, dumbfounded.

A prank call—it has to be.

Still … something in the stranger’s tone … an urgency … has me moving.

I grab my robe and purse, then climb out onto the fire escape. If I had neighbors, I’d be quite the sight, naked with wild hair and puffy eyes, outside their windows as I clamber down the steel steps.

For a brief second, I contemplate pausing to slip on the robe. This must be a prank, the telephone version of Ding-Dong Ditch. Besides Emily, Ciro, and Albert/Alex/Allen, and my weekly phone call to my grandparents, I haven’t spoken to anyone else, not since my father’s death. How would this man even get my number? Why would he warn me?

Al was scrolling through my phone earlier. But that wasn’t his voice warning me to flee. Besides, he walked out on me nearly twenty minutes ago. And I don’t believe I’ll ever hear his voice again.

Loud pops fill the air.

Gunfire . A barrage of bullets, coming from the street in front of my building.

Oh, sweet heaven. What’s happening?

Now I’m moving. My hands and feet slip and slide on the steel as I descend the last few steps, only to reach a landing stretching out over the building’s grassy backyard.

I consider the drop, and how I could sprain an ankle or break a leg if I land awkwardly.

This is New York City, where big-city violence happens. The street violence and strange phone call are likely a coincidence. And given the gunshots, it’d be safer inside. With the new lock, anyone trying to enter would have to bust down the door.

But what if you’re wrong?

A quick plan forms. Once in the yard below, I’ll slip on my robe, call the police, and wait hidden in the backyard while the violence unfolding out front is resolved. When it’s safe, I’ll walk around to the front entryway. Type in the code and use my apartment key to reenter my apartment. Then, I’ll laugh about flashing booby at my nonexistent neighbors and panicking over something just as ridiculous as a Gucci bag.

I release my purse, and it falls to the ground. Fingers wrapped around the lowest rung, I stretch my body and dangle my legs. Then, I let go, dropping like a sack of potatoes, hit the ground, and then tumble onto my buttocks so hard, the wind’s knocked out of me.

I’m sprawled on the grass and peering up at the sky when it happens. A loud, earth-shattering boom. The ground shakes. Bricks fall. Within seconds, flames shoot out of a window overhead.

Wait.

No. No. NO.

Not any window: the apartment window directly below my own.