Page 75 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
“I’ll take that as a yes. There’s a place I want to show you.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling into the dirt parking lot of what looks like a chrome-covered spaceship that crash-landed in the middle of nowhere. The building gleams in the desert sun, nearly blinding me despite my sunglasses.
“Bambino’s,” I read from the sign. “Interesting name for a place in the middle of nowhere.”
“Thanks.”
I turn to look at him. “You own this too?”
Because of course he does. Is there anything in this city Lorenzo doesn’t have his fingers in?
“Bought it about five years ago,” he says, leading me toward the entrance. “My old high school baseball coach opened it when retirement got boring. When he died, I made sure it didn’t close. His widow manages the place now.”
The inside is a shrine to America’s pastime. Signed baseballs in display cases, vintage gloves mounted on walls, photos of legendary players scattered everywhere. It’s charming in a way I didn’t expect from Lorenzo’s world.
We slide into a vinyl booth by the window, and I’m still taking in the decor when a blonde woman with big hair and bigger smile approaches our table.
“Hey, Enzo!” She beams at him like he just made her entire day. “How are you, honey?”
Enzo?
A spike of jealousy hits me so fast it steals my breath. I know it’s irrational—Lorenzo can have female friends, especially ones closer to his age—but hearing another woman use a pet name for him makes my teeth clench.
“Darla, this is my wife, Mia,” Lorenzo says, and I notice he doesn’t correct her nickname usage. “Mia, this is Darla. She manages the place.”
Oh, this is the coach’s widow.
Darla’s eyes widen with delight. “Wife? Well, I’ll be damned. It’s about time you settled down.” She turns that maternal beam on me. “And aren’t you just a pretty little thing.”
My cheeks heat. “Thank you.”
I scan the baseball-themed menu, “Mickey Mantle Chicken Sandwich,” I announce, closing my menu. “Because apparently everything here is named after dead baseball players.”
Lorenzo chuckles. “I’ll go with the Jackie Robinson sliders.”
Darla takes our order and disappears, leaving us alone again. The silence feels heavier now, weighted with all the conversations we still need to have.
“So,” I say, because someone has to break the tension, “baseball, huh? You never mentioned that before.”
Something shifts in his expression. “I played from little league through high school. Wanted to go pro once upon a time.”
I try to picture Lorenzo in pinstripes, diving for ground balls and sliding into home plate. It’s surprisingly easy to imagine. He’s got the build for it—tall, lean, athletic.
“What happened?”
His smile dims. “My father had other plans.”
“Did you even try to fight him on it?”
“There was no point.” His voice goes flat, emotionless. “My old man made his expectations crystal clear from the time I was eight. I was born to be Don. Everything else was just a distraction.”
Eight years old. Jesus.
“That seems incredibly unfair,” I say quietly. “What about what you wanted?”
Lorenzo shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I can see the old pain in his eyes. “Fairness isn’t really a concept in my world. I’m the oldest male heir. My fate was decided the moment I took my first breath.”
“And your mother was okay with that?”
