Dark Reign (The Bennett Duet #2): A Dark Mafia Romance

by Xavier Neal

  The animals rush to their late-night snack at the same time I shake my head. “Le sue mani non devono essere sporcate.”

  Her hands do not need to be dirtied.

  “They’re already dirty,” he lightly chortles again. “They became dirty the day she took her job in Bennvilla.” The cigarette falls to the ground for him to stub out. “You’re acting like the woman you’re going to marry has no idea of the man you are or the world marrying you means she lives in, instead of like the woman carrying my Godchild – yes I am self-proclaiming that shit – knows exactly the type of person you are and chooses to be with your frowny-faced ass anyway.”

  That comment causes me to whip my head in his direction.

  “I love Chantal, just like you do.”

  An unmistakable growl presents itself.

  “Ok, errore mio,” my mistake, “not just like you fucking do. I don’t wanna fuck her. I’ve never wanted to fuck her. And, I damn sure don’t wanna marry her or make her have my baby or any of that shit.”

  My tense shoulders sink just a smidge.

  “But, the other shit? Yeah, Beni. I love her. She’s…” the happy look on his expression creates a pain in my chest, “famiglia. She’s famiglia just. Like. You.”

  I prepare to look away to watch Remus return to the barn when his face angles to keep my attention.

  “You’re not the only one who wants her smiling and laughing and back to the woman she used to be, but I don’t think keeping her locked up and away from being useful in our lives is going to help that.”

  “I don’t want her in danger, again.”

  “And, I’m not telling you to bring her here to pet the hungry, man-eating pigs.” He casually points. “I’m simply saying let her help in this shit. Give her a chance to get the eye-for-an-eye Tai is.”

  My head quickly shakes as I object in a low tone, “Non è pronta.”

  She's not ready.

  “Have you bothered to ask her that?”

  Guilt furrows my brow.

  Pushes my stare to the sight of the pigs being thrown another piece of Franklin’s mutilated corpse, this time from Keenan.

  I haven’t even asked how she’s been doing in my absence.

  I’ve simply relied on updates from Dario, Antonio, and Mamma.

  The fact they’re all, more or less, giving me the same vague statements only increases my concern on how fragile her mental state still is.

  I don’t call her directly or attempt a video chat because I do not want it to upset her.

  I, also, don’t want to see her sad and broken and be unable to hold her in the moment.

  Being around her like that is torture enough.

  Watching it from a distance would only add to the agony.

  “You know what they say about assuming, cousin.”

  “Sì.” After a minor pause, I sigh, “It makes an ass out of you and me.”

  “And, maybe you need that kind of help, but I damn sure don’t.” He reaches into his pocket to retrieve another cigarette. “I mastered that art decades ago.”

  There’s no stopping the smirk that tugs at my lips. “Oh, that’s an artform?”

  “Everything I do is an artform. I’m a Jack of all trades, cousin. Questo lo sai.”

  This you know.

  My hands find their way to their pockets on a completed crooked grin. “Sì. You definitely put the backwards ass in Renaissance man.”

  Miko proudly chortles on a flicker of his lighter. “Grazie.”

  Another head shake is given prior to me watching Keenan walk away and Remus return with another limb.

  Perhaps, I should be like the owl.

  Perhaps, I should work on communicating a bit more with my mate rather than at her.

  When the time presents itself, I’ll…try harder than I have.

  And, when she’s ready…if she’s ever ready to bestow rightful vengeance upon those that have had a hand in making her life miserable, I will be the one to hand her the blade.

  I’ve doled out a multitude of retribution in this regard.

  It’s only right she is allowed at least one.

  Chapter 14

  I tilt my head to the side as I struggle to hold back my smile. “That’s not a real word.”

  Gianozzo – Miko’s father who was easier to recognize than his best friend thanks to the scruffiness in his voice – reaches for his nearly empty wine glass. “Is, too.”

  Without giving a glance at the board again, I ask, “Is it an English word?”

  “Does it have to be?”

  There’s no fighting the laughter that springs free. “Yes.”

  “Says who?”

  “The rules!” More giggles effortlessly escape. “Only one language at a time can be played.”

  His face scrunches behind his glass, giving me what is clearly a glimpse into Miko’s future.

  From their eye and hair colors to their mannerisms, down to their slightly goofy nature, it’s obvious that they’re father and son.

  Like, straight up chip off the same block shit.

  I’m sure my dad and me had some similar quirks, but this is damn near uncanny.

  We’re talking someone invented a time machine, or used that thing Doctor Who used, to go into the future and bring back future Miko to spend the early evening poorly playing board games with me.

  What’s even more amusing is watching Gianozzo give Antonio hell the same way Miko does to Beni.

  If I didn’t know Benedict was Beni’s father, I would swear Antonio is in a heartbeat.

  Even certain words are delivered in the same deep, dark cadence.

  Gianozzo finishes what’s in his glass first and then removes his tile pieces from the Upwords game board. “Fine, but next time, we play in Italian.” He gives me a glare that’s packed to the brim with humor. “It’ll even the game.”

  “I don’t know how to spell that many words in Italian.”

  “Sì. Like I said.”

  Another round of snickers starts, yet stops to change directions due to the sight of Gia and Felia openly exchanging letter pieces. “What are you two doing?!”

  “Helping,” Gia sasses while sticking the newly acquired piece on her rack.

  I giggle even louder than before. “How is that helping!?”

  “She needed new letters. I needed new letters,” Felia nonchalantly replies. “Do you have an I?”

  “I do have an I!” Gia exclaims back prior to picking it up.

  “Stop it,” my chuckles undermine my scolding.

  “I have an O,” Felia retorts. “Can you use an O?”

  “I can always use an O.” She teasingly winks.

  “Ohmy…” Somehow I fight through my overwhelming laughs to declare, “Quit that! That’s not how this game is played!”

  “Oh, that sound is you?!” Miko’s voice suddenly interjects from over my shoulder. “I thought those were the chick birds bitching at the guy one to help clean up the house or some shit.”

  Laughter spreads through all of us at the table.

  On a sassy head shake, I snap, “Vai a farti fottere.”

  Go fuck yourself.

  I learned that from Gianozzo.

  He says it to Antonio a lot.

  “That’s exactly what I plan on doing while some chick sucks my balls, and I remind her whose dick she’ll have to consider herself lucky to suck.”

  Mirth remains in my expression. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

  “Si.” Miko swoops down and pecks Felia on the cheek.

  Her hand leans up to pat his cheek while her husband grumbles, “Why does your face still have that shit on it? Is shaving illegal in whatever country you were in?”

  Miko rolls his eyes on what’s, obviously, an annoyed sigh.

  “Mr. Tritelli would you like me to schedule you an appointment for a haircut and a shave?” Walter volunteers from where he’s sitting beside Antonio.

  “Are you wearing jeans?” Miko’s bafflement ignites more
laughter. “Why the fuck didn’t I know you own jeans?”

  “Did you also know he can play ‘Bed of Roses’ on the piano and used to have a secret torrid affair with Benedict’s head driver?”

  “Ewan?!” His attention swings from me back to Walter who is reaching for a cheese cube. “You used to fuck Ewan?!”

  “We were more than just lovers, Mr. Tritelli. We were…partners.”

  “Why did I not fucking know this?!”

  “Why didn’t you know he owns jeans?” I promptly poke.

  Before Miko can insert a comeback, his mother states, “If you ever learn to settle down Miko-”

  “Unlikely,” he mutters under his breath as he snatches up her glass of red wine.

  “-you should aim for a woman like Chantal. She’s practically perfect.”

  “I am practically perfect…”

  “Practically perfect pain in the ass,” he playfully sneers on a sip.

  The fact his punches aren’t being pulled pushes more confidence back into my system.

  I’ve missed this.

  Him.

  Us.

  Our repartee is one that I wanted repaired sooner rather than later. Due to the constant close quarters, he has, without a doubt, become my best friend – similar to the way he is for Beni. Reconnecting with Cerise is a must as well, but fixing this relationship is definitely first. If I’m going off of the way he’s acting now, I think it’s safe to believe, it may require much less work than I originally thought.

  “So much noise,” Beni’s voice suddenly says, pulling my attention over my shoulder. The minute his eyes settle on me, he adds, “And, such a pleasant surprise.”

  Our eyes merely linger in one another’s for a brief moment.

  His stare cycles through love and longing and uneasiness. It’s apparent, from the way his neck and jaw are clenched, that he wants to express the numerous worries I have no doubt are rushing through his mind, yet the way his fingers fidget with his shirt, smoothing down the buttoned article, indicates that he wants to remain calm.

  Composed.

  Confident.

  He wants me to see the man who’s sworn to protect me instead of the one who has convinced himself he might not be able to.

  Crazy thing is, I want him seeing the woman who he agreed to let be his equal as opposed to the one he thinks needs saving.

  “Did you know Walter owns fucking jeans?” Miko croaks out, collecting our attention.

  My future husband crosses from the doorway to where we’re playing. “I did not.”

  “Did you know him and Ewan were a fucking thing?”

  “I also did not know that.” His hand lands lightly on my back, and I can’t stop myself from quietly swooning. “Why do you know that?”

  “Your fiancée is like one of those square things-”

  “A Rubik’s Cube?” I casually question.

  “Sì, but instead of just a bunch of colors, you’ve got a bunch of weird fucking family information.”

  “Flattering and insulting, Miko. Only you can make that possible,” Beni playfully jeers.

  “È un regalo.”

  It’s a gift.

  “Purtroppo, senza ricevuta,” Gianozzo slyly states.

  Unfortunately, with no receipt.

  Our snickering at Miko’s expense is proceeded by the love of my life letting his thumb give me the softest and smallest stroke.

  “Master Bennett, would you like me to get you a glass of wine?” Walter offers as he prepares to stand. “Or, perhaps, something to eat? Would you like for me to change back into my uniform and resume my duties as usual? Retrieve Mr. Sedaris from his quarters? He was given permission to engage in a nap by Mr. Ricci; however, I can wake him if you require.”

  “No,” Beni quickly denies. “He’s fine. You’re fine. Please…continue to…enjoy the family’s company.”

  “Walter is family,” Gia sassily scolds her son.

  “Questo è vero, Mamma.”

  This is true, Mamma.

  “E non dimenticarlo mai,” she adds on a smirk.

  And, do not ever forget that.

  Antonio pushes his rack of letters away from him. “La tua futura moglie tradisce.”

  Your future wife cheats.

  Appalment drops my jaw, yet it’s Beni who chuckles out, “She doesn’t. Sei appena stato ingannato.”

  Curiosity cocks my head to meet his gaze. “What does that mean?”

  “He just got hustled.”

  “You hustled us?” Gianozzo croaks in pretend outrage.

  “Hustled implies we were playing for something, like money or cars or a signed copy of Emmy Noether’s biography,” I craftily argue, “so, technically, no I didn’t hustle you.”

  “We were playing for bragging rights,” Antonio insists.

  “We’re always playing for those,” Gianozzo echoes.

  “She’s like a fucking word shark,” Miko informs during his reach over to grab a piece of meat from the snack tray.

  “You word sharked us?” Antonio releases a grunt dripped in mirth. “That is infinitely worse than being card-sharked.”

  There’s a small hum out of my fiancé followed by a teasing accusation, “Is it really?”

  “You know your mamma is a card-shark,” Gianozzo announces while insisting his son hand him a piece of meat since he’s closer. “Not even two months ago she cleaned out a group of aristobrats in the backroom of Contini’s.”

  Surprise shoots my stare to her.

  Gia brushes off the comments with a small hand toss. “Non era niente.” It was nothing. “Counting cards in a room full of people who are still learning to count is barely a feat worth discussing.” Her fingers wrap around the stem of her glass. “Now, if you wanna talk about that time in a Casablanca whorehouse, that’s an impressive story.”

  “I need to hear that story,” Miko immediately commands. “Leave out no details, Aunt Giavanna. Nessuna.”

  None.

  “Why is it I’m completely unaware of the adventurous life you’ve led?” Beni lightly chortles.

  “You were only to know what your father wanted you to.” Her tone is accompanied by a firm, yet motherly, look. “I do hope you do not make the same mistakes he did.”

  There’s a small pause prior to him leaning down to press his lips near my ear. “Would you please join me in private for a word, Mia Bella?”

  I angle my head so close our lips nearly touch. “Only if it’s in our room.”

  Heat that I’ve missed seeing stirs in his hazel stare while the faintest growl lingers in the back of his throat. “Very well, then. Our room it is.”

  Beni steps back, extends a palm for the taking, and wordlessly guides us inside, leaving behind Miko’s pleads for more stories and more wine.

  Upon entering the area, he immediately notices what I expected he would. “You’ve been in here.”

  The door is shut behind me. “I have.”

  His body turns towards me to show me the shocked expression on his face.

  “Every night since you left.”

  More surprise hits him, causing him to stumble backwards.

  “I didn’t wanna be in that room anymore, Benicio. I wanted to be here. I wanted to sleep in our bed. In our sheets. Shower in our shower.” Everything I want to say crashes into everything I need to, leaving my thoughts a jumbled mess. Instead of wading through them, I motion to the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Sit.”

  He lifts his brows before asking, “Dove sono le tue buone manière, Mia Bella?”

  Where are your manners?

  “Where are yours?”

  Beni looks taken back once more. “Mi scusi?”

  “You used to tell me you missed me and kissed me hello after a long trip.”

  Indignation is implanted in his glare as he steps closer to me. “You have not wanted me to kiss you since you were brought back to the estate.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Sì.”

 
; “Were those words I actually said?”

  More anger surges in his stare. “Mi hai appena detto qualcosa.”

  You have barely said anything to me.

  “And, if I had, would you have listened, or would you have given me another round of Benicio knows best bullshit?” His mouth cracks open to retort when I cut him off. “Could you please sit down?”

  He, reluctantly, surrenders.

  Sheds his suit jacket during his stroll away.

  Tosses it on the bed and him in the seat.

  Like a pissy teenager, he throws his hands in the air to indicate he’s done what he’s been told.

  Ugh.

  It’s fucking ridiculous I actually miss this side of him.

  I join him on the opposite side of the room; however, I remain standing. After a deep breath of courage – something I am still struggling a bit to hold onto – I kick my chin up and proclaim, “I speak for me.”

  His lips form a hard line.

  “I make my choices. I get to decide when I’m ready to pick up a pen and journal again. I get to decide if I’m ready to be held or hugged or kissed or fucked. Me.” The tap of my chest emphasizes my point. “I get to decide how I grieve, Beni, or when or where. It’s my choice whether I wanna talk about what happened or how I wanna handle any of that shit, not yours. And, just because I’m not coping the way you want doesn’t mean I’m not coping. It doesn’t mean I’m not dealing with this hurricane of hell inside of me. It just means I’m doing it my way, and you need to learn that there are certain things you cannot and will not control in my life.”

  He angles his head to one side, silently indicating he’s listening.

  “What you can control is how you treat me. And, if you’re willing, to treat me the way I need or continue to do whatever it is you have already deemed best.”

  There’s a long pause by an uncertain and unsure, “Dimmi di cosa hai bisogno.”

  Tell me what you need.

  His quiet command is taken as further encouragement to have my voice heard. “I need you to stop treating me like I’m gonna fucking break if you breathe in my direction the wrong way.”

  Culpability causes him to shift in his seat.

  “I need support that comes from treating me like I can handle whatever it is that you’re handing out, like I won’t crack under the pressure even though I fucking might. And, if I buckle or crack, I need you to just stick out your hand, help me up, and remind my ass to keep going.”