Page 35 of Bene

Like a motherfucker.

In Cosa Nostra, it was tradition for a man’s hand to be sliced with a knife chosen by the boss as he spoke his oath, and after the patron saint he’d chosen burned to nothing but ash in his palm. Symbolic, in a way, speaking to the oath they all had to take for this life.

The mafia came first.

La famiglia was held most important above all else.

Family.

Friends.

Love.

Even God.

Hence, the saint.

It was Bene’s only thoughts when he finally got home—the watch on his wrist said it was only five, but hell, it felt like one. In the morning. Maybe that was because the past two weeks finally caught up to him, and he now realized what it was really about and what it meant for the rest of his life.

The cut on his palm? Dried with blood? Dirtied with burned ashes from the picture of a saint he’d picked for his initiation into Cosa Nostra?

It only meant one thing, now.

He was made.

Bene walked through his penthouse in a haze, of sorts, seeing different things he had left scattered and forgotten while his life was upended for two weeks. A bag of chips on the counter. Unwashed dishes in the sink. His bathroom had turned into a hurricane, and his bedroom didn’t look much better, either.

Clothes strewed across the floor from just changing when he needed to, but not having the time to properly put things away. He hadn’t made his bed in two weeks, and the sheets needed to be washed. He had a pile of shit that needed to go to the drycleaners, and he just had zero desire to clean anything. Not after the day he had.

Couldn’t he just … enjoy this moment?

This milestone?

Bene didn’t know.

So, while he tried to figure it out, and settle everything that had happened over the course of an evening, he did attempt to clean up his penthouse. At least now, he had the time to do so, and no one would be calling him away as soon as he started something.

Maybe it was time to hire a maid.

Besides, after today, there would be no more running to do odd jobs or answering to whichever made man had his phone number. He was now set to work as his brothers’ right-hand man, for whatever Chris or Marcus needed. Considering Marcus was the underboss of the family, Bene knew he’d be making his brother’s life easier as the go-between for Capos controlling the men on the streets.

Work he liked.

By the time Bene made it back to his bedroom to pick up the clothes strewn all over the floor, and strip the bed of the dirty sheets, he was ready to call it a night. And yet, when he picked up a pair of pants he hadn’t worn in two weeks, and a piece of crumpled up paper fell to the floor—writing side up—he hesitated.

Her number.

That signature V.

Christ.

Why could he still taste that woman on his mouth? How did she make him hard when he hadn’t even seen her in weeks? Not to mention, why did his exhaustion suddenly disappear at the idea of calling that number, and seeing if he might be able to celebrate this night with her?

Bene had no intention of questioning it. He simply grabbed that paper and pulled his phone from his pocket. He was already dialing the number before he even left the bedroom.

Surely, he earned this.

Right?