Page 39 of Kidnapped By the Mafia Boss
I’m shocked.
And yet… I’m not. Dimitri told me this was who he was. He waited for me to make a decision for myself and the second I ceded it, he took the revenge he wanted.
“You said we’d all get a chance,” grumbles one of the gathered kingpins.
“Why did you shoot him in the pelvis?” someone else asks.
“Supposed to be the most painful place to be shot,” my fiancé replies conversationally.
“Good.” Westminster nods. “Does anyone want to advocate for letting him live?”
There’s a snort from another of the other kingpins, and Howard’s muffled crying.
“I’ll shoot anyone who wants to suggest keeping rapists alive,” says Lambeth cheerfully.
“Everyone agrees he should die. The only question is how, and who should do it.”
“Me,” says Dimitri, and I don’t know why I’m taken aback at the savageness in his tone.
“He lived in my territory,” comes a voice, immediately followed by, “He bought the knife in mine,” and “The hotel and restaurant were in Canary Wharf.”
“I honestly don’t care who kills him, but can we do this quickly? I want to get back to my wife in time for lunch,” another man grumbles, glancing at his watch.
“Filling the cream donut with your new bride, Blackstone?” Laurent says. “Is it true she’s your daughter’s best friend?”
“It’s a marriage in name only,” Blackstone replies tightly, looking away, more or less confirming that yes, he has married his daughter’s best friend and there’s cream involved.
Somehow that makes me feel better. We’re not the only screwed-up, big-age-gap couple here. I glance up at Dimitri and his icy eyes are soft. They’re teddy-bear blue when he looks at me that way and I feel like I’m the centre of his universe, no one else here at all.
“Which is why you have to go and bang her,” Laurent continues with amusement.
Blackstone goes red at the ears. “It’s?—”
“Can we all take turns?” Lambeth suggests.
“Death isn’t like that,” points out Artem dryly.
“Yes, I had gathered,” Lambeth drawls. “But fair’s fair. We all want to kill the piece of shit, and you’ve already maimed him, Rotherhithe. Whose claim is the biggest?”
“You could just compare dick sizes,” mutters Jeanette Laurent to her husband and they laugh.
Westminster heaves an irritated sigh.
“Well, in that case—” Lambeth starts.
“If you’re going to be children about this,” Artem interrupts, “we’ll settle it in the Maths Club way.”
“Not this again,” Westminster says between clenched teeth.
“What is the London Maths Club?” I ask quietly, but there’s a lull in the talking and everyone turns to look at me. Dimitri rumbles a growl and tucks me closer to him.
“That idiot didn’t want to tell his wife that he was a mafia boss,” Lambeth says, gesturing towards the kingpin of Canary Wharf.
The man shrugs. “As if you wouldn’t do anything and everything to keep your wife.”
“So he told her this was a maths club,” Lambeth says. “The idea sort of… Stuck.”
“Back to the main issue, gentlemen,” Westminster interrupts. “The sum is 98 times 63.”
