Page 111 of Mafia Darling

I feel so proud

I rolled my eyes, though my smile widened. My piccola monella, always pushing and teasing me.

When the car pulled up to the front entrance, I gripped my cane and got out as quickly as I could manage. It was imperative that I appear mostly recovered, not as an invalid. Mommo was there, talking to one of the monks out front, and he came right over when he saw me.

“Fausto, ciao!” He kissed my cheeks. “You are looking well. Much better than I’d heard.”

“A scratch,” I said with a shrug. “I hardly even notice it any more.”

He slapped my shoulder and I grinned through the pain. “Va bene, va bene. We need you strong, my boy. Your father, he was strong, too. I remember how he took two bullets in the thigh and kept chasing a rival dealer through the streets.” Mommo chuckled as he led me inside, and I left Marco and Benito to deal with the car.

“Is everyone here?” I asked, removing my sunglasses and tucking them in my jacket pocket. The guards patted us both down for weapons, as these meetings were supposed to be friendly. No guns, no knives.

“Sì, sì. We were just waiting on you, even though you live closer than the rest of us, eh?” He shook my shoulder roughly, jostling me.

“That’s because I’m busier than all you lazy fucks,” I teased back, though I felt lightheaded from the pain.

“Come in. We were having a drink, but now we can get started.”

“Excellent.”

In truth, I could not wait to sit down again. But instead, I made the rounds in the big hall where the round table was set up. I shook hands, kissed cheeks, slapped backs, and acted as if I hadn’t almost been assassinated three weeks ago. Someone handed me a Campari and soda, and I saw it was Marco. I sent him a grateful look and drank half the cocktail in one swallow.

Inside the room were the members of La Provincia, the board of control. The one person missing was Enzo D’Agostino. It was smart of him not to show up, because I would have strangled him on the spot.

Finally all the leaders sat, with our men standing behind us. I was sandwiched between the dons from Reggio Calabria and Platì, both men I knew well.

Pasquale Borghese was the capo crimine, also the diplomat and mediator of the group, so he called the meeting to order. “Signori, let us begin, as we are all anxious to return home. Some more than others.”

“Yes, the ones with girlfriends!” someone shouted, causing everyone to laugh.

Borghese held up his hand. “We must start with the most recent conflict among us, which has escalated and turned ugly. Too ugly, in my opinion, and I know many at this table feel the same. Ravazzani, would you care to explain?”

I pushed back my chair and rose slowly. “You all know me. You know I do not attack unless provoked. It started small, with a group of pirates stealing my shipment, hired by D’Agostino. Then D’Agostino kidnapped my wife, put a gun in her mouth.”

“Was she your wife at the time?” Mommo asked, though everyone already knew the answer.

“No, but she is the daughter of Roberto Mancini, one of our leaders in Toronto, and she was pregnant with my child at the time.” I dragged in a breath and went on. “D’Agostino also blackmailed one of my men into embezzling thirty million Euros from me.” Eyebrows went up all around the table. “And he hired an assassin to shoot me on the street.”

I let all that sink in. Every man at this table would exact retribution in my shoes. They knew what I was feeling.

“So I ask: Would any of you let D’Agostino live after all he had done?”

No one had the balls to say yes. If they did, I would call them a liar.

“Dai, Fausto,” Borghese said, puffing on a cigar. “You kidnapped and tortured D’Agostino. For days.”

I held up my hands. “I don’t deny it, but I will say I was justified. Francesca is the love of my life. If your wife was kidnapped, you would do the same.”

“He thought he was taking your mantenuta, a whore.” Mommo shrugged like this was acceptable. “We all know the Mancini girl was impure when she came to Siderno.”

My temper flared and I beat it back through ruthless willpower. This was not the time.

“Basta,” Borghese told Mommo. “That is his wife you are talking about. The mother of his child.”

Mommo apologized and I continued, looking at every face around the room. “I would prefer to handle the situation with D’Agostino myself. I am requesting that no one here interferes.”

Borghese puffed on his cigar and leaned back in his chair. “Does anyone object to Don Ravazzani’s request?”

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