Dominic: a Dark Mafia Romance (Benedetti Brothers Book 2)

by Natasha Knight

  But I needed to remember he was my mother’s brother. He’d loved her. Franco trusted him. Sergio had too. Salvatore didn’t trust anyone, and it sounded like the last seven years had only put distance between him and the Benedetti family. Me? Roman and I had a strange relationship. He’d known all along who I was—and who I was not. He’d been decent to me, to some extent. Roman was always good to Roman first, though. But hell, same could be said of any of us. Except maybe Salvatore.

  Roman had helped to organize the buying of Salvatore’s house, helped me sell off the cars and much of the furniture. He’d made sure the house was maintained, even though no one lived there. Why? Why would he help me after that night, when I was out, finished? When I was no longer a threat? One more Benedetti son out of the picture.

  Why not, though? Why raise my suspicions by denying me help? And couldn’t he then keep better track of me? Keep me in my place, which was far from his.

  I thought back to those years and wondered if he’d been a friend to any of us, really. Or did he manage each of us, his eyes on the prize all along—becoming head of the Benedetti crime family.

  No, that seemed too far-fetched. Too impossible.

  But maybe it wasn’t. To be so close to the kind of power Franco Benedetti wielded and sit impotent at his side for so many years? I knew how that felt. I knew what it made of me.

  Power corrupted. And Roman was corrupt. I’d bet my fucking life on it.

  I slowed as I drove the final mile toward the mansion. Night had fallen, and a crescent moon illuminated a thousand stars in the clear night. Gia stirred beside me.

  “Are we there?”

  “Yes.”

  She rubbed her eyes and leaned forward to get a better look as we got close enough for the lights of the SUV to shine on the gates protecting the property.

  I slowed the vehicle, and she took it all in.

  The last few miles I’d been tense. Now, that tension had reached a new level. I hadn’t been back since that night. I hadn’t been in the dining room since the shooting, and I was about to face it all now.

  “Stay inside,” I told her, climbing out to punch in the code. I watched the gates slide open. The single change I’d made to the property after buying it was to have all the locks changed and a keyless entry system put in.

  Once the gates opened, I drove the SUV through, then stopped again to watch them close behind us. I’d change the code tomorrow. Roman also knew it. I hadn’t thought twice about him having it, not back then.

  Gia sat awestruck at what she saw as we drove the long drive toward the front door.

  “What is this?”

  “My house,” I said, realizing it was. I’d taken over Salvatore’s home, kept some of his furniture. And he didn’t even know it.

  I didn’t bother trying to figure out my own twisted motivation.

  “Your house?”

  “Mercenary life pays.”

  “Can’t pay this much.”

  I parked the car. Gia climbed out. I walked ahead to the front door and punched in the code. The number combination registered, and a click signaled the unlocking of the door. I pushed it open, memory of that last night flooding all of my senses as I stood on the threshold, gripping the doorknob to remain upright as the wave crashed over me, then, slowly, way too slowly, passed. I swallowed hard and reached a shaky hand to switch on the lights. The hallway illuminated immediately, and I moved aside to allow Gia to enter.

  “Wow.”

  It was all she said while she turned around in a circle, her gaze up on the vaulted, frescoed ceiling. Salvatore had tacky taste if you asked me, but watching her take it in, to see her in awe, made me strangely, stupidly proud.

  I cleared my throat and pushed the door closed, hearing the lock engage when I did. I moved swiftly through the house, turning on lights as I went, seeing the layers of dust covering the sheets protecting the remaining furniture.

  “It’ll need to be cleaned,” I said, trying to avoid looking at the closed door that led into the dining room. Trying not to think of that night. Of what I’d find there. That was the one room I hadn’t allowed to be cleaned. I wondered now how it would look—glasses left on the table now filled with dust, the whiskey having long since evaporated. Would the blood have seeped into the obnoxious marble floors? Splattered and stained the walls with permanent reminders? Would it take me back in time to that night, that terrible night, when I’d learned the truth and lost everything in the process?

  “This room is off-limits,” I told Gia, gesturing to the closed dining-room door.

  She shifted her weight onto one leg and narrowed her eyes. She looked like she was about to say something smart, but then her expression changed, like she knew this was serious. Like she knew not to fuck with me on this. She nodded.

  I walked over to the liquor cabinet and found a bottle of unopened whiskey. I took it and found a glass. She followed me into the kitchen, where I turned on the gurgling tap and waited until the water ran clear before rinsing the glass. I filled it halfway with the liquor. I held it out to her.

  She hesitated but then took it and sipped, squeezing her eyes shut. I guessed it scorched the back of her throat. She then handed it back. I drank a long swallow and refilled the glass, appreciating the burn. Salvatore had good taste.

  “Can I have a proper shower?”

  I nodded and finished the glass, then led the way upstairs to Lucia’s old room.

  “Who’s room was this?” she asked, eyeing the abandoned makeup, the lipstick on the vanity with its lid off, the discarded pair of shoes lying beside the bed.

  “My brother’s wife’s room.”

  She looked at me, confused.

  “It was my brother’s house. He left it seven years ago. I took it over.”

  She searched my face, my eyes. Had she heard the story of the Benedetti brothers? Of how the one almost killed the other? No one knew what transpired that night, at least as far as the why of it. No one knew the secret Franco had told. No one but those who were here. As far as the mafia world was concerned, Dominic Benedetti was alive and well and had left after a family argument.

  “Bathroom’s in there. You’ll have to deal with the dust. I need to make a call. Do I need to lock you in the bedroom, or will you stay put?”

  “Lock me in?” She rested her hands on her hips, and her eyebrows rose high on her forehead.

  I nodded. I didn’t have time to deal with her right now. I needed to make a call. I needed to find out where Roman stood.

  “I’ll stay,” she said, her tone irritated. “And I want this off,” she pointed to the collar.

  “Maybe we need to revisit some things.” I went to her, took her by the collar, and walked her backward until her back hit the wall. She pressed against my chest, but I pulled upward, forcing her chin up. Her eyes went wide, angry but also fearful, like they’d looked in the cabin.

  “You’re still mine, you’re still owned. When I took you out of the cabin, I stole you from Victor Scava. I did not release you. You do not give orders. You obey them. Understand?”

  I felt her throat work as she swallowed. Her lips tightened, and her little hands fisted at my chest.

  “I asked you if you understood.”

  “Yes,” she bit out.

  I gave her a grin. “Good.” I released her. She took a full breath of air and stood against the wall as I left. I didn’t lock the door behind me. I went downstairs to Salvatore’s study. My study. There, I switched on the light and dragged the sheets off the chair and desk and sat down. Using my cell phone, I scrolled down to Roman’s number and hit Send.

  He answered on the second ring. “Dominic?”

  “It’s been a while, Uncle.”

  He exhaled deeply. “Yes, it has.”

  I hadn’t seen him in almost seven years, and his voice told me Salvatore was right. He’d hardened in that time.

  “I heard about the body,” I said, getting right to business.

  Silence, then, “A
nd you want to know if I ordered Mateo Castellano’s killing.”

  “I am curious why you’d mark him for everyone and their fucking grandmother to know it was you.” I played dumb. Even if Salvatore had spoken with him after our call—which I doubted—he wouldn’t betray me.

  “I have enemies, Dominic. You know how it is for us. And snitches aren’t tolerated. Period.” He sounded stern, unmoved, like a real head of the family.

  But he still didn’t answer my question.

  “He’d done work for us in the past. His father was a friend to Franco.”

  “Business is business. Where are you, Dominic?”

  “West.” I wasn’t giving him anything. The more I thought about it, the guiltier Roman became.

  “Do you need money? I can send you something. Franco won’t know.”

  My lip twitched at his charity. His giving away the Benedetti money like it was his.

  “No, Uncle. I don’t need money.” I could hear the hostility in my tone. Surely he could too.

  Silence. “You’re well, then? Do you want me to do anything with the house? Will you be coming back?”

  “No. I just grew curious when I heard about the murder, the brand. It didn’t seem like you.”

  “The body shouldn’t have been found,” he said flatly.

  Again, not taking responsibility, although not quite denying it either.

  “But it was left where it could be. Seems like quite the oversight.”

  “I need to meet with Franco, Dominic. Good to hear from you.”

  “Tell him I said hello.” I hung up and leaned back in my chair. I had eight days until the auction. Eight days—at the most—until Scava would come looking for Gia and me. Eight days to figure out how Roman was involved.

  A clanging sound stole my attention, and I stood. We were locked in the house. No one was here but us, no one knew about this place but Roman, and he didn’t know where I was. I’d left my pistol in the SUV, but checking Salvatore’s desk drawers, I found one there along with some ammunition. I loaded the handgun and opened the study door, listening. Another sound came, this time from the kitchen. I walked that way, scanning the large, open space as I went, the ghostlike lumps beneath the dustcovers eerie in the darkness of night.

  The kitchen light was on. I could see it from beneath the door. Just before I kicked it open, I heard Gia mutter a curse from the other side.

  I opened the door and shook my head. She stood beside the counter, sucking on the tip of her finger. She froze too, her gaze falling from my eyes to the pistol I held. I put the safety on and tucked it into the back of my jeans, then cleared my throat. I scanned her from head to toe.

  “I found the clothes in the closet.”

  She wore an oversize lavender sweater that fell off the shoulder and a short, hip-hugging black skirt. On her feet she had on a pair of calf-length sheepskin boots that accentuated her slender, toned legs. She’d wound her long dark hair up into a messy, wet bun, and her face had been scrubbed of all the dirt from the last few days.

  Gia shuffled her weight to her other foot and stuck the tip of her finger back in her mouth. “I guess I forgot how to use a can opener.”

  She looked so different than she had in the cabin. Everything about her seemed changed, now that she had proper clothes, a shower, a freedom of sorts. She looked confident. And fucking beautiful.

  I cleared my throat. “There’s probably a first-aid kit somewhere, knowing Salvatore.” I started opening cupboards and drawers to search for it, doing anything possible to not look at her.

  “Salvatore?”

  I stopped. I’d given too much away. “My brother.”

  “And his wife, Lucia.”

  I looked at her sharply. “How did you know?”

  “She likes to write her name in her books,” Gia said with a smile. Then that smile vanished. “You’re not lying, are you? She wasn’t…a slave…”

  I thought about Salvatore and Lucia’s relationship, how it had started, how it was meant to be, how it had turned out. “No.” Simple answer. “They’re married and have two kids, a third on the way. They love each other,” I added, confused why I added that last part.

  I knew what lay beneath my anger over how things had been way back when, how I was last in line, the one who would only inherit upon the death of my two older brothers. I always knew, I just had never admitted it—not to myself, not to anyone—but I was jealous. I’d always been jealous, especially of Salvatore.

  “Here it is,” I said, finding the kit, unable to meet her gaze until I got the expression on my face under control. Too much fucking emotion in this house. Too much memory.

  I held it out to her, and she took it, an awkward silence between us. I looked at what was on the counter. She’d cleaned the space and found pasta, an unopened bottle of olive oil, and a can of tuna. A pot of water rumbled to a boil on the stove top.

  “Think tuna fish is still good after seven years?”

  I shrugged a shoulder. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “The pantry’s stocked. Mostly expired food, though,” she said, sticking the edge of a bandage in her mouth to tear it open.

  I took it from her and stripped off the wrapper, then took her hand, ignoring the almost electrical charge upon touching her, denying its pull, and held the bloodied finger under the water to clean it. After drying it, I wrapped the bandage over it. “There.” I released her as quickly as possible.

  “Thanks.” She cleared her throat and busied herself with the pasta.

  “You didn’t stay in your room.” I picked up the can of tuna and opened it.

  “I was hungry. And don’t worry. When I heard you talking, I walked on by and didn’t go into the room you don’t want me to go into.” She rolled her eyes.

  I peeked into the pantry to check it out. She was right. There was a lot of food, most of which would have to be thrown away, but it’d do for a couple of days. At least while I figured out what I was doing.

  Reaching into a cupboard where dishes were stacked, I took two, washed them, and set them on the counter.

  “Do you know what information Mateo had on Victor Scava?”

  She glanced at me but returned her attention to the pot when she answered. That’s how I knew she was lying. Women tried to look busy when they told lies.

  “No. Not specifically.”

  I sniffed the tuna. “I don’t think I want to take a chance with this.” I dumped the can with its contents into the trash can. Gia kept her gaze on the pasta. I washed my hands and dried them, then turned to her. “You don’t mind?”

  She gave me a nervous glance. “No, you’re probably right.”

  I took her wrist, squeezed a little, and made her look at me.

  “What information did Mateo have on Victor Scava?”

  She studied me, her expression cool, hiding any pain she felt behind her clever eyes as she weighed her options.

  “He’d worn a wire and recorded some conversations.”

  “Why did you lie when I first asked you?” I softened my grip and turned her arm over to look at the soft inside of her wrist, so small and delicate, then returned my gaze to hers.

  I squeezed again, hurting her.

  She flinched.

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We locked gazes while water boiled over in the pot. “Do you have access to the recordings?”

  Her jaw tightened, and I twisted her arm behind her back, standing so close our bodies touched, hers small and soft, mine wanting.

  “Yes.”

  I waited, twisting again so that she cried out.

  “You’re hurting me!”

  “Where?” My voice came clear and calm compared to her panicked cry.

  “At the library where I volunteer.”

  “You volunteer at the library?”

  “I like to read.”

  “Where exactly?”

  Water spilled out from under the lid of the pasta, hissin
g as it fell to the stove top.

  “Mateo saved the file on one of the computers. A public computer. No one will find it.”

  I smiled. “Clever.”

  “You’re really hurting me.”

  As if I needed a reminder. Hell, she was the one who needed one. “I told you I would.”

  She didn’t have a comeback for that. I released her, and she stepped back, rubbing her arm. I turned down the burner.

  “Did you listen to the recordings?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “He’d only done it the day before he disappeared. I found out the next morning when I went in for my shift and found an envelope tucked under the keyboard at my workstation with my name on the front. I recognized Mateo’s handwriting and looked when I got a chance. It was a scribbled note with a file path. That’s all. I didn’t have time to download it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You didn’t ask me.”

  “Omission is lying.”

  “This is a fucked-up situation. I don’t know left from right, and you go from torturing me to…to…” she gestured around the kitchen. “To fucking playing house.”

  “We’re not fucking playing house.”

  “No fucking joke. My brother is dead. He died because of what was on that recording. Excuse me if I don’t give it up without a second thought to a man I called Death!”

  I backed off, filled a glass with water from the tap, and drank, forcing myself to breathe, to calm the fuck down. “What were you going to do with the file?” I finally asked.

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Depended on what was on it. I guess turn them over, get Victor arrested, sent to prison.”

  “That’s naive.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  I know she tried to sound hateful, clever, but she didn’t. She just sounded sad and a little lost, actually.

  I shook my head and took the pot of pasta off the burner.

  “Don’t lie to me again,” I said without looking at her.

  She stood back while I drained then plated the pasta and poured olive oil over it. After wiping down the kitchen table, I carried them over and set them down.