Page 50 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“You thought wrong.”
I smirk.
“Why are you here, Renzo? And don’t say you miss me.” He leans back, waiting.
I hesitate, because if I seem too eager, he’ll laugh. I’ve spent years researching drone tech for covert surveillance, a resource that could elevate the Eleven in ways the old-school mafiosi can’t even imagine. The possibilities are staggering; silent, untraceable airstrikes and the ability to monitor our enemies’ every move without detection.
Don Lucchese knew traditional mafia wars, where one kill sparks retaliation until bodies pile up and peace is finally brokered, would lead to the mafia’s downfall. No civilian wants to see corpses lining the streets.
If Sandro can look past a drone’s toylike appearance and recognize its lethal potential, he’ll realize investing in the latest tech will put the Beneventis ahead of everyone else.
But misperceptions aren’t about knowing too little—they come from believing in the wrong thing too much.
Like I’m the weaker twin.
Like Sandro can wear our father’s shoes without tripping over his own feet.
“I’ve a plan,” I say, short and simple.
His expression’s smug. “You don’t have plans.”
“I need to borrow a million dollars.”
His body goes rigid, like I shot a bullet up his asshole.
“Ten percent interest. I’ll pay you back in a year.”
“You fucking serious? Lend you a million?”
“Two, if you can spare it.”
His lips curl cruelly. “To do what? Open a chain of kink clubs? Lorenzo’s Den of Lust?”
“Sounds more like porn, not kink.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
I brush fake lint off my pants, then offer up a partial lie, something believable his pea-size brain can compute. “I’ve been fucking around with the market and found some ripe tech investments.” The ripe part is true, but I don’t “fuck around” with the market, I dominate it. I’ve been a ghost investor since sixteen, mostly in tech, and have built a sweet nest egg. But it’s nowhere near what my father has at his disposal and, as the Beneventi heir, Sandro has access to.
The way I see it, this fucker owes me.
“A million-dollar investment?” he repeats.
“Let’s call it an even two.”
“No.”
I offer him a winning grin. “Fine. One and a half will do.”
He stares at me from across his desk, reminding me so much of our father. Sandro was born to be the Beneventi heir. Doesn’t fucking excuse him from stealing my destiny.
“You owe me,” I say, the truth coming out of me whether I wanted it to or not.
“For what?”
“The bullshit you pulled in Rome.”
His expression reads confused. The asshole’s settled into the Life now, hasn’t he?
