Dirty Mafia Sinner (Dirty Mafia Kingdom #2)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

SANDRO

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I blink slowly, groaning as the pain slices through every part of me—my head, my body, my pride.

“Finally decided to grow a set of balls, huh?”

The voice is unmistakable. I force my good eye open, and sure enough, it’s Renzo. And I’m in a hospital room, tangled in a mess of tubes and wires, hooked up like Frankenstein’s monster with the relentless beeping of machines echoing in my ears. The pain is sharp and unyielding, cutting through the haze of medication.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Shit is right. You’d better have your story straight before Father arrives.”

I turn my head in the opposite direction. My brother is seated in a chair he pulled up beside my bed. Alive—and not a sitting duck in the rehab center my father had him locked away in.

“There’s a hit …”

“Yeah. Mafiosi showed up at the center, looking for me.” He flashes me a weak smile. “But I’d had enough of vinyasa yoga, green smoothies, and Sergeant Dickwad and his hellish goons. I’m not fucking military material.”

Military or mafia material. Renzo can whup ass—and we often go at it—but his heart’s butter, when this lifestyle requires ice.

The softhearted prick.

“Where am I?” I croak, my voice shit.

“Providence Hospital.”

Rhode Island, from some urine-infested New York side street? I don’t remember anything after I escaped.

“Does he know?” I demand with all the strength I have.

“About the hit … well, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “Didn’t he just butcher Bible Belt Benny? Benny’s men were bound to retaliate …”

“Does he know I was ambushed?” I burst out, interrupting his wrong assumptions.

“You mean is Father furious you ignored the lockdown?” He grins like a madman. “Oh, yeah. If I were you, I’d get my story straight, and fast.”

The cords attached to me tangle as I shift in bed. I hate them. I hate feeling weak and vulnerable. Most of all, I hate that my father knows I’m responsible for this, that I was nearly killed, that I made our family look weak.

“You look ready to strangle someone,” my twin comments.

“Lean closer, and you’ll find out.”

He laughs. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud you showed some balls. You … disobeying an order? Not being the great Sebastiano Beneventi’s bitch? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Call me a bitch once more,” I grind out, “and you’ll be lying in this bed.”

“And offer Sergeant Dickwad an opportunity to haul me back to Maine? Not on my life.”

His life …

Thank fuck Renzo broke out of rehab when he did. “You know a lot about everything yet nothing about what matters right now. It wasn’t Benny’s men who issued the hits. It was Emilio Conti.”

“That bottom-feeder?”

“Conti’s been planning to kill me for weeks.” My admission’s a festering wound I keep scratching and scratching, my carelessness forming a vicious scar. A reminder of my weakness. A reminder to my father I’m not mafia material.

“Jesus. Stop projecting sad puppy vibes.”

I glare at him with one eye, to little effect.

“Conti is patient and methodical. Look how long it took him to nearly gain control over Atlanta with that stunt he pulled with his uncle? That bastard plotted his move for months. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had men watching you at the casino.”

My fingers curl into a fist. Luckily, my perceptive brother doesn’t notice. I’ll deal with Ciro fucking Cigorelli before anyone, especially my father, uncovers the full truth.

Renzo flips his wrist, glances at his watch, then stands.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I demand.

“Same place he’ll insist you lie low for a while. While he counters rumors and saves face. Can’t have Sebastiano Beneventi’s heir kidnapped and nearly beaten to death. What will the famiglie think?”

It infuriates me that he’s right. That Italy is exactly where he’ll want me. Hiding away like a bitch while he does damage control. I own a villa in Sardinia. A place to blow off steam or get an Italian-style blow job, and more. My playground. My escape. And now, the great Sebastiano Beneventi will ruin that, too.

“You’ll be staying in Sardinia?”

“And stare at your miserable face day and night?” He chuckles. “Fuck, no thank you. I’m not ready to sober up yet.”

I stiffen, imagining Renzo high, untethered, and wandering Rome’s seedy side. Vulnerable. “Conti’s still out there.”

“Father’s men can’t find me. What makes you think that bottom-dweller will do any better?”

“Drugs will rot your brain, asshole.”

“While you, brother, rot your soul for him.”

“Fuck you.”

“And fuck you back.”

I grit my teeth. “You think Sergeant Dickhead was difficult? Wait until I recover, because I’ll personally hunt you down and go cold turkey on your ass. Capisci?”

“Game on, asshole.” He pats my arm. “I hope she was worth what you’re about to undergo.”

Her name’s Riley.

“I’ve my own fires to deal with, so I won’t be sticking around to watch you burn. But I’d appreciate it if you don’t mention to Father I was here.”

I roll an eye. “Are you a moron? His men are all over the hospital.” It’s an assumption based on experience. Sebastiano Beneventi might be the highest-ranking capo next to our godfather, Don Lucchese, but as our father, he’d risk his life to protect us.

“Watch and learn, Sandro. Watch and learn.”

With a groan, I force myself to a seated position, as Renzo heads to a window, pops it open, and disappears.

The Joker and goddamn Flash, rolled into one.

The room falls quiet … almost.

Beep. Beep.

I frantically claw at my chest, which sets the machines off.

Two nurses race into the room. Screams mix in with the noise. “Sir! Stop! You can’t do that.”

I stagger to my feet.

Emilio Conti is a dead man.

I shove the medical monitor and send it crashing into the wall, then totter toward the door. Slow and unsteady, the race lost before it begins.

Two large, burly men in suits easily intercept me. I pop the first man in the chin, catching him by surprise. “Move out of my way.” My words slur, and my legs grow heavy like I’m carrying extra weight.

“Your father’s on his way.”

No shit, Sherlock. That’s why I’m on my way out. Conti is mine. I have to end his miserable life before my father does. Redeem myself. Prove I’m worthy. I’m tempted, so tempted, to rat out my brother. Give my father’s men something to focus on other than holding me back.

A needle is thrust into my arm.

Damn it. I should have expected this.

“That motherfucker won’t get away…” I’m pinned to the bed and then sedated. I struggle against the binds pulling tight across my body. Pure, unrequited rage fills me.

You fucked up, Sandro.

Beep.

Better get your story straight.

I watch my father’s arrival through slitted, swollen eyes. He hits a wall, surprising me. His style’s more ticking time bomb than grenade toss, a calculated fury that’s nevertheless terrifying to witness.

Two nurses bolt from the room.

“Get a guard posted outside who doesn’t reek like fucking sauerkraut,” my father snarls into his cell phone. Only an Italian loyal to the Beneventi famiglia is trusted enough to stand watch over his son, keeping everyone out—and me in this damn bed.

He knows I disobeyed an order.

He’ll want an explanation.

Why risk so much when she was just another shiny new toy to break in, to mold, to reshape and corrupt? She never really knew me. Did she listen to Tommaso’s order? Escape while she could? Not that it matters now—what’s done is done.

She meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, so what’s the point in bringing her up?

A doctor approaches the bed with a clipboard.

I shutter my eyes and buy a few more minutes to prepare myself.

“How is he?” my father demands.

The doctor fumbles nervously, on edge. “He has two broken ribs and a fractured nose, along with severe swelling on his left side. We can’t detect any internal bleeding, but there’s a strong likelihood he has a concussion.”

“Keep him here for the week for further observation.”

The doctor makes a strained squeak, clearly unsettled. “We’ll do our best. He tore out his tubes, trying to leave, so we’ve had to restrain him to the bed.”

The damn tattletale.

“Free him. He’ll do as I say.”

“Yes, Mr. Beneventi.” The straps pulled tight across my body fall free. Footsteps retreat, leaving my father’s tall figure looming over the bed.

“Open your eyes, Sandro. I know you’re awake.”

Damn it.

I open my good eye and brace for the inquisition.

Predictable isn’t a word you’d use to describe my father. “You okay?” His tone’s hoarse and brimming with emotion.

Hell, no. This is worse than opening our discussion with “ You disappointed me, you little shit. ” Where is the ambitious capo? The demanding asshole who holds my life by the balls?

I’m unprepared for him .

The man who spent every summer fishing with Renzo and me.

The same man who, when I was ten, built me a high-tech fort on our Rhode Island estate. A month later, construction started on Renzo’s golf course. I hate golf—loathe it even more after my father’s blatant show of favoritism.

But watching him now, something in his behavior makes me question if I had it all wrong.

I get right to the point. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

“You’re alive. That’s what matters.” He drops into the same chair Renzo vacated. I wait for him to settle before sharing the news.

“Emilio Conti is behind this. He put hits out on both Renzo and me.”

I study his reaction—he doesn’t seem surprised. Damn, he’s been busy. “My men will find him and take care of him,” I say, as if dealing with Conti is a mere inconvenience.

“Leave Conti to me.”

No way in hell. “Conti’s mine,” I snarl.

Capo Sebastiano Beneventi leans in, his tone cold and threatening. “You think you can negotiate with me, you little shit?”

I stand my ground. “Fine. Whoever finds him first gets to finish him.”

His jaw clenches, and I can see the inevitable question forming on his lips. Finally, he demands, “Who is she?”

“Who?”

In response, he slams his fist into the monitor, sending it crashing to the floor. “Your little fucking sidepiece?”

“I’m too busy with the casino—”

“Don’t lie. Who is the woman you risked breaking lockdown for? The reason you were pulled off a Brooklyn street, beaten within an inch of your life and nearly dismembered?”

Madonna, he’s been thorough.

I keep my tone neutral. “No one important. Just a fling.”

“Let me get this straight. You left your Soho apartment, with security tighter than a supermax prison, during a lockdown, for ‘no one’?”

“Correct,” I reply, leaning in with a hint of challenge. “A nobody, like sweet little Alessia.”

His eyes narrow, warning me not to push too far.

We’ve clashed for months over Governor Amato’s daughter. I might be arrogant, but I’m not blind to his weakness. And my father is stubborn, especially when it comes to his favorite plaything.

He sits back, folding his hands in his lap. I’ve managed to piss him off again. What’s new?

“Tommaso will be questioned.”

Motherfucker. “Tommaso follows my orders.”

“Your bodyguard’s job is to protect you.”

“He did what I asked him to do,” I grind out.

“That right?”

Do I confess? Admit Tommaso was making a phone call during the most critical time, when we could have escaped?

I purposely shift on the bed so pain shoots through me. To manipulate a master manipulator and trigger more fatherly concern.

He ignores my efforts. “You were snatched off the street. What the hell were you thinking?”

Riley, on her knees.

Riley, struggling against the tie I used to secure her to the bedpost.

Riley, and her sweet smile.

Gone … possibly dead.

I wasn’t careful. I was obsessed.

God, the truth pains me in its own special way. “I fucked up.”

“You almost died .”

I don’t argue. What’s the point?

“When you’re healed, I’ll beat the living crap out of you. Capisci?”

“I understand.” My failure. His disappointment.

“You used a goddamn chain saw, huh?”

I blink in surprise. Jesus, he even knows how I escaped? “It was a messy kill,” I admit, glancing at my arms. Someone cleaned the blood off me while I was out—probably the tattletale doctor. Can’t have Sebastiano Beneventi’s son looking like a casualty of war. “They tied me to a wooden chair.”

“That right?” His curiosity is piqued. His men gave him the facts; now I fill in the details.

“They left me alone for a coffee break.”

“Like attracts like; Conti’s a dumb bastard.” He pauses, waiting for more. “How’d you get a chain saw?”

“First, I sharpened a chair leg against the cement floor—like you had us do when we were nine.” Boy Scout training, Beneventi style. We were taught to be prepared for anything. Chain saws, though, that’s a new one. “Then I surprised them when they came back. Sure, I could’ve gone caveman with the chair leg, but why not use modern tools when they’re right there?”

I brace for the tiniest fucking hint of praise—hell, I’ll take even a nod.

“Your brother would have bare-knuckled it and used the chair leg.”

I flinch.

“But they’d have to catch him first.”

There it is—the inevitable comparison. Renzo thumbs his nose at my father, and my father rubs mine in how clever Renzo is.

I stifle my irritation and repeat my warning to Renzo. “I’ll hunt him down, then straighten his ass out. I promise you that.”

“Start in California. He’s still chasing a pipe dream.”

By pipe dream, my father means Elia Seraphina Lombardi, our main rival’s daughter. Renzo’s been fucking around with her for years, since we were kids. If Renzo’s a flame, she’s a goddamn firecracker. And they aren’t the only ones who’ll burn in hell if Renzo can’t keep his filthy mitts off her.

Except, he just returned from California, didn’t he? Now, he’s headed to Italy. Maybe rehab did clear his muddled mind?

“Love makes us vulnerable.”

My jaw slackens in surprise.

“But vulnerability is a weakness. Capisci?”

Is he talking about my brother’s relationship, my feelings, or are we back to Alessia Amato?

“You’ll stay here for the week, then take the jet to Sardinia. I’ve arranged for additional medical care at a trusted facility.” He jabs a finger at me. “Don’t defy me, or I’ll burn your goddamn villa to the ground.”

Jesus. “I’ll check into the damn facility for a few days,” I retort. How many days depends on the doctors and how persuasive I can be.

“Recover in Italy until further notice.”

Renzo was right. I’ll be hidden away while he does damage control. “Don Lucchese will consider it disrespectful if I don’t visit him.”

“I’ll handle your godfather.”

“Tommaso will accompany me.” It’s delivered as a statement, not request.

“After I have a word with him.”

Well, shit. But Tommaso’s a big boy. Who fears one man—the great Sebastiano Beneventi. Don’t we all?

He stands, having said what he came to say.

“Prima la famiglia,” I mutter.

He locks eyes with me. “That’s right.” Then he repeats my words, and the creed I’ve been brought up on. “Family first, always.”

“I won’t let you down again.”

Humiliation sinks its claws in deep. I’m disgusted—for breaking lockdown, getting ambushed, disappointing him, and worst of all, by endangering the Beneventi name when the vote for capo di tutti capi looms so close. I’ll do whatever it takes to repair the damage, to earn back my father’s respect. Starting with cleaning up the mess I made—and putting a bullet in that stranzo Conti.

He nods curtly. “We’ll see, won’t we?”