Permanent Lines

by Ashley Wilcox

  “That means a lot,” I finally responded, trying not to choke up like a complete pussy. “Really, you have no idea.”

  “I’m marrying Kayla,” he replied, “I think I have an idea.” He smirked, taking a sip of the scotch in his hand.

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “If something happens tonight, and I don’t come home …” I exhaled, facing the truth. “Can you make sure Amelia’s safe, that she’s taken care of? I know you’ve already done a lot, but …”

  “Consider it done,” he interrupted, patting my back again before the girls noticed us talking on the other side of the room and came to our sides.

  “You guys telling secrets over here?” Kayla kidded.

  Miles and I both put on cool, collected grins even though the subject matter discussed was nothing close to flowers and unicorns.

  Amelia knew the truth, wrapping her arms around me and snuggling into my side. I knew the emotions that were flooding Amelia. They were the same ones racing through my body. I knew she loved me more than anything in this world, but I also knew she wasn’t clingy or overly affectionate and today … she was. I couldn’t complain, I fucking loved the feeling her closeness gave me, but at the same time I knew why. I knew she was scared. I knew she was worried and I knew she didn’t know what the outcome was going to be. To be honest, neither did I.

  We had a plan. We played it out a zillion times, but when it came down to it, we couldn’t account for their actions, we didn’t know for sure what each of the guys were going to be loaded with, and we sure as shit didn’t know how they were going to react to us—they had no fucking clue who we were. The mafia didn’t like that. Most of them were family. We didn’t have either on our side, but Joey said he would play us up and tell them we were two of the most prestigious poker players on the East Coast. Apparently they loved to play with real gamers. Our story was that we kept a low profile and only cashed in on important enough events, making us not common to most guys involved in the world of underground gambling. Micah and I just had to pull it off. We had to act and walk with authority and power. And we had to play damn good poker.

  Our names were Dom, short for Dominic, and Enzo, short for Lorenzo, Russo, better known as the Russo brothers. We kept the first names strong and not so common, but our last name as fucking Italian and ordinary as you could get. Micah and I didn’t look terribly similar, but alike enough that we could pull it off. Italians worked together, keeping most things in the family, so saying we were brothers would be an up with making our identities realistic.

  Miles rented a couple gold chains for us both along with some diamond encrusted rings. When we walked out of the bathroom, Amelia chuckled.

  “Look at my little guido imposter,” she teased, coming up to me and holding me close by the opening of my suit.

  I grinned, doing the best Italian accent that I could. “Fuhgeddaboudit.”

  “Okay, Joey Tribbiani.” She laughed again before her face turned serious.

  I brushed the back of my hand against her face. “It’ll be fine, baby,” I said softly. “We’ll be sipping on beers and talking about our wedding before you know it.”

  Her eyebrow raised as she looked at me apprehensively. “Wedding?”

  “You think I’m not putting a ring on that finger when I’m done with this?” I said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Fuck yeah, we’re getting married!”

  Her eyes immediately puddled with tears as she pushed her lips onto mine. There was so much fucking emotion mixed in it that I almost forgot where we were and what we were about to do.

  Our foreheads rested together once our lips separated.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “Please come home to me tonight.”

  I kissed her nose and then her lips, whispering, “Promise,” against them before kissing them again.

  A stray tear streamed down her face. I wiped it away with my thumb.

  “Don’t cry, baby,” I told her, wiping away another one. “We’re cacti, remember?” I smiled. “We don’t die, we just keep going.”

  She snickered at my analogy. “Yeah,” she smiled, “we’re cacti.”

  Just after nine o’clock, we started loading up the vehicles. Micah and I were driving by ourselves in a black Escalade while the others followed in the Tahoe. The entrance we were to use was in the back, of course, so Miles, Stewart, and the girls waited around the corner on a random street.

  The only thing weighing on my brain was the fact that there was no Plan B. There was no button to push if shit started to hit the fan. It was basically life or death. Death, I guess, was Plan B. Miles had a few of his bad guys on speed dial, but they weren’t the feds or even mafia members. They were just rough, been around the block, guys all out for the win and available to cleanup if need be. Also known as Miles’ minions.

  Miles paid them well, using them when he got in a bind. I guess you could refer to them as Miles’ mafia of three, but they weren’t blood sprayers, always going for the kill, offing people just because. They made sure people knew who they were fucking with and to never do it again. They were those kind of guys. Guys you didn’t want to fuck with. Guys out for intimidation.

  But that was it. We didn’t have protection—just a few extra hands.

  We pulled up and I turned the car off with a shaky sigh. Micah and I both looked at each other one last time, bumping our fists together like we always did before races.

  “Knock ‘em dead, buddy,” he said before reaching for the door handle.

  “You too, my man.”

  There were two grueling, huge dudes waiting at the door with a clipboard just like Joey said. They asked for our names and then our IDs. We had both ready. Again, I was impressed with how well Stewart had them looking. They appeared to be official New York State licenses, the hologram and everything flawless.

  The one checking looked us up and down a few times. He obviously didn’t like the fact that he didn’t know who we were, but that’s something we already expected. We kept our faces straight and focused, disinterested enough that no one would question us. We kept our shit together and for a minute, I forgot I was Merrick Drake. Tonight I was Dom Russo and that’s who I fucking looked and acted like.

  He handed us our IDs back and ushered us to the guys at the top of the stairwell. Checkpoint after checkpoint, it seemed. Antonio was definitely thorough. The place wasn’t anything fancy inside; there was no indication that wealthy ass fuckers were running an illegal gambling ring in the basement, but I guess that was the idea. Low key in appearance equals no giveaways.

  Just as planned, we cleared security and two minutes later we were walking down the old cement stairway. My heart was pounding out of my chest, my adrenaline through the roof. I couldn’t wait to see Antonio. I couldn’t wait to see him fall … that was really the only thing driving me at the moment—rage. I couldn’t think of anything else. I had to keep Amelia in the back of my head. For the first and only time, she had to stay there. I couldn’t soften. I couldn’t go weak. This was for her. This was for our life together. I had to stay focused.

  There was a door at the bottom. Micah and I both looked at each other before turning the knob. He nodded.

  It was go time.

  I was kind of shocked when I walked in. I didn’t know why, but I was expecting a pimped out, expensive-looking place. It was anything but. It was a regular old basement with cement walls and floors, a pool table to the left with a mini bar, and then two poker tables in front of us. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a creepy ass old basement. It was clean and well-kept, but nothing crazy. It actually was a little calming; not nearly as intimidating as I expected.

  Joey was standing at the table to the right. He looked at us, but in the same apprehensive way that the guys upstairs did. I was impressed. He was acting perfectly; it seemed like he didn’t have a clue who we were or what we were about. With our backstory in place, he’d only talked to us on the pho
ne, but nothing more than that. Though he invited us, the mob was always apprehensive of anyone that they didn’t know personally, always on guard—just as Joey appeared to be.

  “Gentlemen, there’s drinks at the bar,” he pointed behind us, “help yourself. We’ll be getting started soon.”

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets, acting as cool as possible as I nonchalantly did a once over of the room. There was a door behind Joey, just as he said. I nodded my head casually to Micah, then tilted it towards the bar. Micah nodded back—a drink would probably be a good idea at this point. We were trying to keep conversation to a minimum. First, we didn’t have Italian accents, not that it was a crucial thing as we lived in New York and not Italy, but it was a stepping stone in figuring out we weren’t who we were posing to be, and second, we didn’t want any of the nerves that were brewing inside shown through our words.

  There was another guy, about Joey’s age, behind the bar. “What can I get you guys?” he asked.

  “Scotch on ice,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “Two,” Micah followed up.

  He didn’t respond, just started pouring each.

  More guys entered as we sipped our drinks. They were in a group and seemed very confident in their walk. One looked over to where we were standing, looking us up and down. He appeared to be the same age as me, and I had gut-wrenching feeling who he was.

  Antonio.

  He walked over to where we were standing immediately; for a second, I thought we were done for. His furrowed brows and less-than-pleased expression gave me every indication that he didn’t want us there, but as soon as he was within arm’s length, he extended his hand.

  “Antonio Antonacci,” he said, a strong Long Island accent present. “Welcome.”

  I nodded my head and shook his hand with just as firm as a hold as he did.

  “Dominic Russo,” I said. “And my brother, Lorenzo,” I introduced Micah.

  Micah played the part to the T. He shook his hand but also looked him over appraisingly. We needed to appear just as weary as them. This was an illegal ring that we were participating in, so it was imperative to show our apprehensiveness in their business.

  The sides of his lips turned to a grin. I wanted to fucking wipe it off his face, but I had to chill. In due time, though, asshole.

  “My cousin, Joey, spoke highly of you two,” he continued. “I value family and keeping a low profile.”

  “As do we,” I responded firmly.

  He nodded again with that fucking smile, then raised his hand to the tables. “Feel free to sit at Joey’s table. I’m waiting on a few others and then we’ll get started. I look forward to taking your money.” His smile grew to a full grin.

  My eyes squinted as I shot him a “we’ll see about that” smirk. He enjoyed it, but not as much as I did.

  Micah and I took the two seats farthest to the left of the table, leaving the front and right ones open.

  “Would you like to cash in, gentlemen?” Joey asked as soon as we were seated.

  “Yeah, sure,” I answered as Micah and I both reached around to our pockets to grab the cash from our wallets. I noticed Antonio still standing in the same spot as before, still watching us. I nodded my head in his direction, pointing out that I was watching him, as well. Two can play at this game, fucker.

  By the time Joey was passing us our chips, a new group of guys moseyed in. This group was made up of five guys, weighing in at no less than three hundred pounds each. They were by no means scrawny—I’d bet they never missed a visit to the gym. Now these fuckers weren’t what I was expecting, but at least there would be more force behind their anger to help take down the asshole when things got messy.

  Antonio seemed much chummier with them than us and even a bit asswipey, too, which meant these must be the West Coast contingent. The fact that he wanted these guys in his ring was obvious, and to be honest, who wouldn’t? If you wanted someone backing you up, it’d definitely be these guys, but there was something else I picked up on—Antonio was intimidated by them. I could hear the nervousness all over his voice. No chest raising or strong stance could wash away the shakiness in some of his words. I grinned discreetly at Micah. He was a needy little fucker with these guys, and if they decided to join forces with Antonio, they could put a strong backbone back into the Antonacci ring; he needed these guys, but was scared as fuck of them at the same time. I loved every fucking second of watching him squirm!

  I was hunched over the table, elbows resting on the velvet covering, my hands together and fingers intertwined. When three other guys took a seat next to us, I glanced down at my watch. I knew time was of essence and these guys liked everything to work on schedule.

  The guy directly to my right noticed my gesture.

  “Working by the clock?” he asked.

  I looked straight at him. “Nope, just on time.”

  He nodded his head. “Joe,” he said while extending his hand.

  “Dom,” I greeted. “My brother, Enzo.”

  He seemed friendly, but we weren’t here to make friends and we had to appear that way. Business was at the forefront. We needed to remain confident and only here for one reason. To win money … especially since we were going to be calling them cheaters in a few. We took the game seriously, and that’s how we appeared.

  There was no welcome speech or announcement of game rules before Joey started dealing. This was underground, not a casino, after all. The game was established.

  Before picking up our cards, Micah and I pulled the sunglasses from our pockets, garnering most everyone’s attention.

  “I like these guys!” Antonio called out from the other table as he lit a cigar. “No bullshit. Watch out, fellas.” He motioned to the guys sitting beside us.

  “Pussy glasses,” one of the guys to my right said with a low, heavy chuckle.

  I tilted my head to the side and lightly shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Whatever.”

  We ignored his dig and picked up our cards. My fucking excitement was humming when I saw what I had right out the gate—a fucking full house. I smirked before placing my cards face down and starting the bet, pushing $200 in.

  “Ahh, look at Glasses coming out big,” the same guy said, holding his cigar on the side of his mouth, still arranging his cards.

  Micah traded in two cards while the others did one or two as well. I stayed where I was and kept my sight on the table, never looking at anyone around us. When everyone had their cards, we laid them down, mine going down second to last. Micah had a flush, the guy to my direct right had a three of a kind while the other one folded. The talker grinned when he laid down a four of kind before taking the pile.

  I snickered and shook my head, remembering what Maddy said—try to stay away from always putting down matches because some perceive that as amateur.

  “Snicker all you want. I just took your money,” he chuckled again.

  I rested back in my chair and exhaled, acting annoyed before cracking my knuckles.

  After a few hands, the talker had taken most of the piles, but I wasn’t too far behind and the others had decent size chip piles, as well. It was by no means a shut out so far.

  Talker put down another four of kind, making me shake my head before leaning into Micah’s ear, acting like I was whispering something.

  “Problem, gentlemen?” he asked, eating right out of my fucking hand.

  I licked my lips before peering over at him; he couldn’t see my eyes, but my body language was definitely presenting my less than enthusiastic view of his playing. It actually wasn’t hard to do or even an act. The guy was an asshole, a cocky son of a bitch that was already rubbing me the wrong way.

  “It appears luck is on your side,” I told him dryly.

  His blood was beginning to boil; the veins starting to bulge from his neck made that perfectly obvious. I wanted to smile so damn bad—this was almost too easy.

  “It ain’t luck,” he said in a gravelly tone that would make any kid run crying t
o their mom, causing Joey to hold the wire connected to his earpiece to his mouth and whisper something in it.

  Within seconds, I could hear Antonio stand up from his table and the click clack of his dress shoes against the cement floor. Man, I wanted to smile. It was so fucking easy riling these guys up. They were so fucking dumb with egos so big that it was laughable.

  Antonio didn’t say a word, only stood a couple feet behind the table, watching with his arms over his chest. Talker didn’t like that, turning immediately.

  “Need something?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder, cigar still hanging from his mouth.

  Antonio licked his lips and shook his head. “Just watching,” he said.

  Talker rolled his eyes before turning back to the table. I couldn’t tell if it was rage or humor that was consuming him at the moment. He definitely was one of those guys that wasn’t afraid of anyone and would keep talking his shit to piss people off. I didn’t know his power or background, the only thing that I knew was he was a part of a West Coast ring. I would assume the West Coast contingent was just as dangerous as the one we were sitting in.

  As soon as we got our next hand of cards, Antonio stepped forward. It was intimidating even to me.

  “You ain’t gonna watch me play,” Talker said to Antonio.

  “Don’t forget whose seat you’re sittin’ in.”

  “I know damn well, but I don’t know this fucker,” he pointed at me, “and I don’t like his tone.”

  I stood, broad and with a no bullshit stance, making him rise too. The guy was pissing me off, and I didn’t care who he fucking was or what we were there for. No one talked to me like that. No one!

  Antonio stepped forward, coming between us.