Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
RENZO
I meet Dante at Zia Teresa, a small family-style restaurant on the same narrow street as Dante’s Club Tiberius. The place is empty except for our famiglie’s second-in-command, the waitress seated on his lap, and one of the Italian Youngbloods, Luciano Santoro.
Dante neglected to mention he’d be here.
I stick out my hand for a firm shake. “Luciano.”
“Lorenzo.”
“You look like shit,” Dante greets me, frowning as both men regard me skeptically.
I’m wearing an expensive designer suit I stole off Sandro, but the material hangs off my frame, making me look like a boy playing dress up. Looking at me, they’re probably wondering if I have what it takes to fill my father’s shoes.
Luciano makes a gagging sound. “And he smells like a French whore.”
I smirk. “Rather smell like a whore than act like a kiss-ass.”
His face turns red. Goddamn amateur. He’s ambitious, I’ll give him that. Doesn’t explain why Dante invited him to our meeting, one I’d hoped would be private so I can safely pitch my proposal.
The gorgeous waitress leaps off Dante’s lap and escapes to the kitchen.
We watch her go. Dante knows how to pick them. The asshole has a hot girlfriend in every fucking city. She’s the perfect distraction.
I fall into a vacant chair. “You speak to my father?”
“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 how to 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.
I relax in my chair, faking annoyance.
“The war is spilling out into city streets,” Luciano comments. “Last night, Cassio’s men barely dodged an ambush in Naples. They had no choice but to defend themselves and killed a few men.”
Dante leans in. “We stay clear of the Cosa Nostra drama,” he commands. “No more deaths, capisci? The famiglie will not take a side. Our suppliers are skittish enough, worried about retaliation if we side with the wrong family.”
I snort.
Dante looks offended.
“We’ve a long-standing agreement with the Grassi family.”
Dante jerks his chin at me. “I forgot you and Massimo are friends.”
“We’ve a mutual respect for each other and share similar interests, is all.”
“Same kinks.” Luciano smiles like he’s said something that might upset me.
I smirk back, unfazed. How the fuck did this numbnut pull off the most shocking initiation into the famiglie yet? “Dante likes quantity, I’m into variety, as is Massimo—even if he’s old-fashioned at heart. But you, my friend …” I pause for a few beats. “… get your kinks from being a bottom.”
“Motherfucker.” Luciano shoots out of his chair. “Where did you hear that?”
Dante, my source, subtly shakes his head. “Jesus,” I mutter innocently. “What’s the big deal if you lie back and take it? It’s just a matter of perspective, with you … looking up …”
“Sit down,” Dante orders. “You’re causing a scene.”
Luciano obeys. “Whoever started that rumor is a dead man.”
“Enough. Let’s get to the real reason we’re here.” Dante locks eyes with him. “I have a job. I want you to find out who’s sabotaging my pistachio harvests.”
His harvests, with Sandro’s backing. I didn’t laugh when my twin invested heavily in Dante’s passion project. Everyone underestimated the emerging nut market, and pistachios turned out to be a gold mine. Puddings, syrups, even chicken recipes. They’re the next big trend since pumpkin spice.
But Dante’s behind. Knowing my brother, his men are already hunting the thieves.
“It’s someone on the outside,” Luciano tosses out, just to hear himself talk.
I’m not convinced. Feels too clean, too convenient. My gut says it’s someone on the inside, and an Italian-based famiglie. And if we cross the Youngbloods off the list, that leaves only one name.
Vito Cardini.
“It’s costing us a fortune, and good men have died.” Dante’s fist tightens, catching my attention. “Whoever is behind this is a threat to neighboring farms.”
Neighboring farms. Right. Like Don Gallo’s—and his lovely daughter’s—farm.
One right next door to the acreage Dante unexpectedly purchased.
Do I doubt Dante’s fooling around with Gallo’s daughter?
No way. Hollywood will tap anything with two legs.
The only criteria is that they’re good looking.
Despite the age difference and Dante being much older, word has it that Luna Gallo harbors a huge crush on my father’s right-hand man. Easy pickings.
So why the clenched fist?
Luciano straightens his shoulders. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Production’s paused for three weeks.”
“I’ll have it dealt with in two.”
I roll my fucking eyes. What I don’t do is admit this won’t be Luciano’s moment but mine. It’s the turning point I’ve been denied. Another chance to showcase exactly what I am—ruthless, calculated, the worst of the Beneventi monsters.
No way am I letting another asshole steal my thunder.
Actions speak louder than words, and mine will land like a mortar blast.
The chef returns with three dishes. With a plop, she sets my meal before me, then leans in. “Boo.”
My eyebrows rise. What the fuck?
With a vicious gleam, she stalks off.
I dig in, unperturbed, ignoring the laughter around me.
My warning about being a monster is genuine.
And now, more than ever, I’m looking forward to proving it.