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The other is the defamation of anyone who doesn’t fall in that category.
Minorities, other ethnicities, and God forbid, women, are the recipients of one insult after the next. Each of the seven courses is brimming over with jokes at the expense of everyone who’s ever lived who isn’t straight out of Hollywood casting for an Italian mobster.
Vittorio has just finished laughing at a joke Valentino made at the expense of a paraplegic Muslim lawyer with one foot in the Chicago underworld when he turns to me. Bee is brooding on my opposite side, nursing a glass of fruit juice with obvious distaste.
“We must ensure Beatrice’s total protection now,” he intones suddenly, shifting the subject in whiplash fashion and sending a plume of prosecco- and prosciutto-laced breath in my face. He’s long past tipsy and well on his way to drunk, but unfortunately for all of us, that only makes the mudak talk louder. “Now that you’ve managed to plant a little Russian runt in my daughter’s dried-up old womb, we must ensure it stays there.”
“I’m doing everything there is to?—”
He slams his palm against my back. “Che sorpresa, no? I didn’t think this would happen before the wedding. Already trying to rob me of my kingdom before you’ve even put a ring on my daughter’s finger. Sly Russian bastard, aren’t you?”
“It’s not a robbery if it’s freely given,” I point out icily. “As per the terms of our alliance.”
Vittorio scowls as he picks up his glass of prosecco. “I’m aware of the terms of our alliance, Egorov. I still don’t have to fucking like it.” He hiccups loudly. “I want my grandson to take my name.”
Bee stiffens beside me, but she doesn’t say a word. I rest a hand on her knee under the table and keep my focus on her father. “You expect my son to wear your name instead of mine? Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink, Vittorio.”
“A hyphenate is reasonable. Zanetti-Egorov. That is a fair compromise, yes. Especially considering you will be inheriting all my wealth and power after I am no more.”
“I will consider it,” I say curtly, though I have no intention whatsoever of letting Vittorio get a single grubby finger on what’s mine from the afterlife.
“Yes, yes,” he slurs. “Consider it. As long as you give me the answer I want. Ha! This is good… very good.” He leans around me to look at Beatrice. “See, mia figlia? Aren’t you glad I beat the devils out of you early? Would you have been carrying the heir to not one but two mafias if it had not been for your papa?”
I redouble my grip on Bee’s thigh and squeeze gently. She plasters a pained smile onto her face. “No, Papa. I would not have.”
He laughs, too amused with himself. “And you.” He claps my back again and finishes off what’s at least his tenth drink of the night. “It’s a good thing that pretty little wife of yours died when she did. Thanks to those dirty Irishmen, I didn’t have to kill her off myself. Ha!”
I’m considering how bad damage control would be if I were to grab the serrated steak knife on the table and plunge it into his windpipe when Bee’s hand lands on my leg.
Breathe, she mouths to me.
Problem is, Vittorio is still going. “You just got yourself an updated model, Egorov. This one—” He jabs a fat finger at Bee. “—may have been deviant once, but at least her womb can hold a baby. That first wife of yours… How many years and nothing? Young and pretty doesn’t mean shit if she can’t do her job and breed, am I right? Am I fucking right?!”
The table erupts in cheers from the slobbering jackals in Vittorio’s employ. I slide my chair back and get to my feet. I hear Bee’s gasp loud and clear amidst the roar of voices that immediately subside when I stand.
Vittorio stares up at me, those pale blue eyes immediately cautious. I wonder suddenly if he’s not quite as drunk as I thought he was. “Have I offended you in some way, young Dmitri?”
Adrenaline is pumping through my body like poison. One move is all it would take to end the sexist, racist, homophobic kozyol sitting next to me. I’d happily risk my life to watch Vittorio bleed out and die.
But Bee?
Risking her life is something I can’t do.
“Not at all, Vittorio,” I assure him, slamming my palm against his shoulder. “I just need to get my woman home. She needs to rest; the pregnancy wears on her.”
The Zanetti don eyes me for a long, tense moment.
No one else breathes or moves.
Then, at last, he smiles that sloppy, drunken smirk of his and waves a hand toward the door. “Of course! Alberto, show them out.” As we’re walking out of the dining room, Vittorio’s voice rises. “And if you need to blow off some steam, Dmitri, let me know. I know of some delicious little offerings you can try. The sweetest pussy you will ever taste.”
I have only the energy to nod back in response before we get the hell out of there. Neither Bee nor I say a thing until we’re back in my Porsche and driving back to the penthouse as fast as the engine will take us.
“Well,” she exhales as though the simple act of breathing is costing her dearly, “that dinner definitely killed a few billion brain cells.”
“I’m not sure how someone like you could have come from someone like him.”
She laughs miserably. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”
