Page 54 of Dirty Mafia Torment
“Not today. Why?”
Yep. Perfect. I shrug. “No reason.”
An older Italian woman approaches the table with a tray piled with steaming hand towels. I take one and rub the dried blood from my fingertips. When I look up, the trio is scowling at me.
“Sei una bestia,” the older woman hisses.
“Mi sento insultato. Sono più un mostro che una bestia,” I smoothly respond, warning the woman that I’m more monster than beast.
“Zia Teresa,” Dante addresses her, placing his used towel on her tray. “Grazie.”
I drop the filthy napkin onto her tray, then immediately hold my hands up, fearing she’s seconds from smacking my head with it.
With a scowl, she charges off.
“Took you two minutes to piss off the best chef in Rome,” Dante scolds, playing the big brother he never was. Years ago, my father struck a deal with Don Lucchese to protect Dante from the bloodbath that would’ve followed under the old rules of succession. By those rules, the Don’s son should’ve ruled next. But instead, my father offered Dante mentorship and protection in exchange for one thing: his name at the top of the new election process. Like my father and brother, Hollywood?as we like to call him for his stylish clothes, razzle-dazzle, and split personality?is a dual threat. An enforcer and earner, exactly what I aim to be. Dante’s been a reliable figure in my life and one of the few people I trust. He knows howto manage my father … which, considering recent events, I’m going to lean heavily on for help.
“No Sandro today?” Luciano asks, in another lame attempt to piss me off.
“No pack today?” Pack being him and the two other Youngbloods.
“Off making money.” He hesitates. Cocky fucker. “The arrogant asshole too busy to meet with us?”
Even if his depiction’s spot on, insulting my twin can’t go unanswered.
But in the Beneventi way, I make him wait for it until he’s squirming in his seat, before striking. “Oiling his new chain saw, I suppose.”
Luciano’s eyes widen, with good reason.
My brother notoriously mailed the Eleven body parts from that weasel, Emilio Conti, after butchering him with a chain saw. We Beneventi earned quite the reputation for our creativity with small machinery.
Dante chuckles.
I wonder what part Luciano received? Ear, eye, or most likely dick?
A few awkward seconds pass—well, awkward for Luciano, anyway.
Ever the diplomat, Dante changes topics. “Zia Teresa makes the best spaghetti alla carbonara in Rome. Place is always packed.”
Luciano drinks his wine before asking the obvious. “Aren’t you biased, being a partial owner?”
I glance around, throat parched, searching for the hot waitress.
“I own the club straight-out but collect rents on the entire block; the apartment buildings, storefronts, and the restaurant.” Easy, passive income the traditional mafia way, by fleecing owners and occupants in exchange for protection.
A different waitress heads toward our table. Dante looks past her, grumbling, “So much for a quick fuck after lunch.”
She stops before us, then addresses us in English. “The usual?”
“The spaghetti alla carbonara,” Dante tells us. “It’s the best in Rome.”
“Two,” she says in English, looking from Dante to Luciano.
“Three…” I begin. But she’s already rushing away. “And bring wine.”
My stomach grumbles.
Dante and Luciano’s laughter fills the restaurant.
