Year of the Scorpio: Part One

by Stacy Gail

  But Polo wasn’t part of the Vitaliev family anymore. He was gone.

  Long gone.

  When my father died of lung cancer a year ago, everything had changed.

  “Ten thousand?” Leo’s meditative tone brought my gaze back to him, and I could see that my wool-gathering hadn’t gone unnoticed. I immediately went deadpan, all the while trying to figure out if he saw my lack of attention as a good thing or a bad one. Then he dug into his impressive pile of chips, and shoved in an entire stack. “I’ll see that, and raise you another...twenty.”

  Konstantin’s beautiful dark head swung around. I saw the motion in my peripheral vision only; I didn’t take my eyes off of Leo. Did this daddy’s boy really have the guns to blow my kings-rich full house out of the water? I couldn’t tell. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip, but that wasn’t all that surprising. The building wasn’t air-conditioned. It was unseasonably muggy for the end of April, and while I hadn’t noticed him sweating before, it could have been there all this time.

  I needed to pay more attention, damn it.

  The sunglasses-at-night player to my right, the only other player remaining, grimaced and folded his cards. “Too rich for my crap hand. Have fun dukin’ it out, kids.”

  Fun.

  Right.

  My heart hammered against my sternum while every nerve in my body stretched and tingled. That was when it hit me like a brick between the eyes—fun was exactly what this was. Nothing made me sit up and take notice more than a risk worth taking, so I allowed myself a faint smile and began shoving chips in.

  “What the hell. If we’re in for thirty, what’s another seventy? I like round numbers.”

  Leo watched without blinking. “If you’re trying to buy the pot, it won’t work, Dash.”

  “How long have we known each other? I’m well aware of how deep your pockets go, so obviously buying the pot would never cross my mind.” When the right amount was in, I gave it a satisfied nod before returning my attention to Leo. “Now I wonder... do you think you can buy the pot from me? I believe I’d actually enjoy seeing you try, especially since I read in the paper the other day that Daddy Bangs is putting three of his buildings up for sale here in Chicago and has ducked out on building the new stadium on the North Shore. For all I know, you’re hard up for cash.”

  “I don’t rely on my father as much as you think.” For a second his eyes flickered around the room. “And like you said, we’ve known each other a long time. I know all too well how deep your pockets go, Russian princess, and where all that money comes from.”

  “Good to hear, Daddy’s boy.” From a seductively wooing Casanova looking to get lucky, Konstantin turned to the table to offer Leo a smile that any serial killer would have been proud of. “That knowledge should keep that fucking mouth of yours full of respect when you address the likes of Dasha Vitaliev. Am I right, or am I right?”

  “Right. Respect.” Leo shifted in his seat, then flicked a glance at his watch. I stared at the twitchiness, not quite believing my eyes. Leo didn’t fidget. He made other players fidget, but not him. He took pride in being the biggest bully on the playground... which made me think he had to be putting on some kind of an act. Had to be.

  Maybe he had the cards to beat me, after all.

  Except the sheen of sweat on his upper lip was getting worse.

  And, now that I thought about it, Leo didn’t sweat. Ever.

  Ha.

  I had him.

  “All right.” Taking his time, Leo began to count out chips. “It’s time to get serious. I’ve got my eye on a new private jet, and this should just cover the down payment.”

  “Now, now, Leo. You know it’s bad luck to spend money you haven’t won yet.”

  “See, that’s the difference between you and me, Dash. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in skill. And even more than that, I believe in looking out for myself.”

  “So it would seem.” It took most of my willpower to not sneer at his plans. When I had this sweet pot in my hot little hands, I was going to finally upgrade the security at the charity I’d founded no more than a ten-minute train ride from here, Chicago’s Future. Then I was going to stock the shelves with nonperishable items for the next year so that no one in the Bronzeville neighborhood would be sent away with empty grocery bags and emptier bellies. There was also the daycare that needed to be built next door to the main building, and if there was anything left over after that, I’d get a few refurbished computers that weren’t as old as I was, so that kids could come in after school and learn a few vital computer skills to help them get a leg up in their lives. Those were my goals for the whole year when it came to Chicago’s Future, and they were totally attainable. I’d been working on a fundraising gala for the past couple months to make these goals a reality, but if I won this pot, it would help in reaching these goals that much sooner.

  A sudden commotion beyond the towering figure of St. Patrick reached my ears. Konstantin was instantly by my side, gun in hand while the game’s coordinator, a man by the name of Elliott, surged forward. “Everyone, remain calm. I have my security team in place. I haven’t received any advance warning from them that we’re going to be raided—”

  “Consider this your advance warning, jackass. Oh, and by the way, your security sucks.”

  My heart skittered at the sound of that rough, edgy voice that held all the grit and danger that the streets of Chicago had to offer. Kon had a similar reaction, taking a half step back as he lowered his gun. That alone told me I wasn’t hallucinating.

  After all this time, Marco Polo Scorpeone was back.

  Holy shit.

  Wild happiness surged as the man himself rounded St. Patrick. For some reason I expected my former bodyguard to look different after disappearing from my life six month ago, but he was just the same. Same long-legged stalking gait, same chiseled cheekbones, same sleek dark brown hair pulled all the way back to the nape of his neck. It was a little longer than it had been, but still with that same silken shine that had always tempted me to see if it was as soft as it looked. His sideburns were also a bit longer than they had been, but otherwise he was still clean-shaven, his aggressively defined squared-off jaw a thing of unparalleled beauty.

  Peeking out of his collar on one side of his neck was the raised tail of a scorpion, a tattoo that I knew covered that shoulder, though I’d never seen it before. His mouth was wide and held that faint half-smile that had shown up around the time he’d hit adulthood, as if he’d at last made peace with the totally fucking mad world around him.

  And the madness it had spawned in him.

  Most people pissed themselves when they saw Scorpio smile. But all I saw was Polo.

  My very own personal hitman.

  “About time you showed up.” I didn’t plan the rebuke; it just tumbled out all on its own. But it sounded so right I decided to roll with it to see where it got me. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Been busy being free.” That smile got sharper. “What? Did you miss me? I was hoping you would.”

  I couldn’t kill him. My father taught me never to kill anyone when there were so many witnesses. “Of course I missed you, jerk. Do you know how many times I asked myself about you? And when I had no answers for myself, I started bugging Kon. Then, when he had no answers, I gave serious thought to firing him. That’s on you, pal, so look ashamed.”

  “You can’t fire me,” Konstantin informed me on a long-suffering sigh, then shook his head at Polo. “She can’t fire me.”

  “I know. Fearless just likes to pretend she’s in charge. It’s cute, in the same way it’s cute when toddlers play in toilets. But it’s not reality.”

  “That’s not cute, that’s gross. And I am in charge.” Really, that had to be said, on both counts. Besides, pointing out that I was in charge had the added bonus of covering up the rush of giddy joy that burst through me at hearing him call me by the special nickname he’d given me so long ago, when I’d held a gun on him an
d he’d promised to always protect me. No one called me Fearless except Polo, and I’d missed hearing it more than I could put into words.

  “Yeah, well, you’re relieved of command, because I’m in charge now.” Polo continued to walk toward me, though I caught his quick, assessing gaze zip around the room. There was something profoundly comforting in seeing the man hadn’t lost any of his first-rate survival skills. “Up.”

  Okay. I was happy to see Polo, certainly. But there was a limit. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Up. As in, on your feet.”

  “Ah. That was command, was it?”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “See, I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt right there. I was hoping you were being helpful by telling me where the sky was.”

  Kon snorted, but Polo’s expression turned downright menacing. “Listen to me very carefully, Dash. This place is going to be flooded with cops in about ninety seconds, but you’re not going to be here when that happens. We’re moving out. I’ve already secured our exit through the back, so you’re getting up off your ass, and we’re moving now.”

  Like a switch being thrown, the room became filled with panicked voices and the sounds of scampering footsteps, including Leo, much to my surprise. The floating game’s coordinator didn’t even try to stop anyone, but he did grab up his phone, no doubt to see if his head of security really was as incompetent as he seemed to be.

  Horrified dismay washed through me, but it wasn’t because of the cops. “But...wait. What about the game?”

  Polo’s prowling advance paused just long enough for him to try to level me with a hard stare. “What?”

  “We’re almost finished, I swear. Look at this pot, Polo, there’s about half a million bucks riding on this hand.”

  “Wow, that’s interesting. Also, I don’t care.”

  Ugh. “Polo—”

  “Your father taught me the meaning behind the word priorities, Dash, even if he forgot to do the same with you.”

  “But—”

  “I said up.” Polo reached me at last, and Kon stepped aside to give him all the room he needed to pull me to my feet. Naturally. Konstantin Medvedev had answered first to my father, second to Polo and third to the ever-present call of his penis. I always ran a distant fourth. “We’re out.”

  “Wait, just... just look.” Out of options, I turned the cards I held and stuck them in his face. Kon took a peek at my hot hand and paused just long enough to make a sympathetic sound, before snagging up my clutch purse, pocketing it and trotting off in the direction that Polo indicated. “Do you understand? This game—”

  “Is over. You.” With an affable smile that had always been so much scarier than his scowl, Polo pointed at the coordinator, Elliott. “My name is Marco Polo Scorpeone, and this is Dasha Vitaliev. See these chips here?” He took his phone out, aimed it at the much-depleted stack of chips at my place, and took a few pictures. “When the dust settles, you’re going to cash those chips out and send the winnings to Ms. Vitaliev within twenty-four hours. If her winnings aren’t in her possession in twenty-five hours, that’ll be fine, because I’ll have made sure that she has your thumbs instead. Fair trade, you can’t argue with that. Do you have any questions regarding this transaction?”

  Wide-eyed, Elliott, shook his head.

  Polo nodded. “Smart man. Glad we could do business. Now you’d better bounce before you get collared. Kinda hard to get Ms. Vitaliev the money owed to her when your ass is stuck behind bars, yeah?”

  I growled in pure frustration as the coordinator scampered. “You’re not even listening to me, are you? Those chips are chump change compared to that pot, don’t you see that? This was the one hand that was going to—”

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not listening.” All at once, that ominously affable smile vanished. Before I could blink, I was up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift while I still clutched my winning hand of kings over tens. “It’s a hell of a problem when my hearing cuts out like that.”

  “Damn it, Polo—”

  “Actually, I’m lying about it being a problem. It’s fucking great when my hearing cuts out, because it cuts out all the stupid shit. Aren’t I a lucky sonofabitch to have a hearing problem like that?”

  “You’re a sonofabitch, all right.” The alarming flash of red and blue lights strobed through the grimy windows, heralding the start of the police raid. With a sigh of deep regret, I let the cards go, and watched all those pretty kings flutter to the floor. “Just when I thought luck was breaking my way.”

  “It did, Fearless. I showed up. Luck of the Irish smiled upon you tonight.”

  “I’m not Irish.”

  “You’re also not under arrest. Not on my watch.”

  He picked up his pace to an almost-jog through the deflated parade balloons and moth-eaten floats, making it impossible for me to remind him that he was no longer on watch when it came to being my bodyguard. That had all come to an end when my father died. Or, to be precise, it had all come to an end when my father, as his final official act before he died, granted Polo his much-deserved and well-earned freedom.

  When I thought about it like that, maybe it wasn’t surprising Polo had disappeared.

  But that did leave me with one question.

  What the hell was he doing back?

  Chapter Two

  Paradis Nouveau, a six-story, outwardly spiraling building that looked like it had aspirations of being the Guggenheim, was the latest architectural wonder in Chicago’s skyline. I knew the building belonged to Polo. My father hadn’t just financed Paradis Nouveau’s dazzling construction; he’d also counseled Polo on how to turn every square inch of the place into turning a legal profit. The first two floors were devoted to retail—from trendy coffee shops and restaurants, to trendier spas and salons, to the trendiest places to shop and be seen.

  The third floor was all about commercial office space, where people wore suits and sensible shoes, punched in at nine, and did soul-sucking drone-work behind modular walls until they punched out at five. Many of those businesses had clean ties to the Vitaliev family, including a TV digital cable company, a team of financial consultants, and a law firm. The owners of these businesses had been friends of my father’s, and they’d landed at that choice location thanks to Borysko Vitaliev’s influence with Polo.

  I’d always been impressed by my dad’s business acumen. He’d been one of the most powerful men in organized crime, but he’d still had many friends on the legitimate side of life. Hanging with the above-reproach businessmen of Chicago had given my dad an air of semi-respectability.

  I, of course, had no illusions. I knew who and what Borysko Vitaliev had really been, but none of that had mattered to me. He’d been my father, my Papa, and I’d loved him more than anything in the world.

  The next two levels of Paradis Nouveau were given to Chicago’s hottest nightclub known simply as Heaven. It was the place to get your party on in Chicago, relentlessly upscale and accessed strictly by express elevators located in the building’s heavily patrolled parking garage.

  I’d been to Heaven a couple of times before my father had died, and each time it had been a wild affair, with live DJs, all-female bartenders who made the Coyote Ugly girls look like clumsy old maids, an exclusive drink menu that was an experience in itself, amazing lightshows and flat-screens in a technological patchwork across the ceiling, showing a frenetic mix of pop-culture snippets and live shots of the dance floor.

  For anyone who loved clubbing, Heaven was...well, heaven.

  But we weren’t destined for Heaven this time around.

  Polo guided us to a bunker-like structure that backed up to the other side of the publicly accessed elevators, and as we entered I saw that this recessed hidey-hole housed a private elevator. He pulled out a key fob and waved it in front of a panel which lit up with a touchscreen keypad. He typed in four numbers so quickly I couldn’t see what they were, and like magic the doors slid open. In a handful of m
oments, we’d zoomed to the penthouse level overlooking the famous Gold Coast and the breathtaking expanse of Lake Michigan beyond.

  “So this is where the infamous Scorpio lives. I’ve always wondered what you lair was like.” Stepping out into the spacious foyer that held two sets of elevator doors, my heels clicked against polished, black-veined white Italian marble. I took a deep breath that held the scents of water and orange blossoms, and I spied a delicate water sculpture on the wall to my right. Directly opposite the elevator was a set of Art Deco double doors faced with panels of brushed copper, and framed on either side by pilasters and an ornately carved lintel above.

  Damn.

  When Marco Polo Scorpeone built something, he really went all out.

  “Are you serious, Dash? You’ve never been here before?” Obviously feeling right at home, Konstantin pushed through the copper doors like he owned the place, looked around for a handful of seconds before coming back to retrieve me like he thought was going to get lost. “All clear.”

  “It wouldn’t be anything else.” Polo followed behind us and tossed the key fob into a crystal bowl by the doors. “And think about it, Kon. Why the hell would I bring Dasha here, to my private space? When I was off-duty, I was off my fucking duty. Of course I never brought her here.”

  Like a shot, that statement pulled me out of my delighted examination of the open-plan, contemporary-styled front room done up in elegant tones of cream, gold and black, with a few accent streaks of bold scarlet. “Is that so? Are you saying that once you punched out of work, I ceased to exist? That work was really all I ever was to you?”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, though you’re not too far off the mark.” Polo shrugged as if he didn’t care his near-agreement cut me all the way to the bone, though I could hardly put into words why. “What I’m saying is that work was all I could ever allow you to be to me. Want something to drink?”

  “Uh, no. No, thank you.” It was weird, but I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. Then again, no one could breathe easily when they got sucker-punched right in the gut. Geez. After all the years we’d spent in each other’s company, from the time I was fifteen and Polo was eighteen and I’d held a gun on him, we’d been incredibly close. But now, was he actually saying that I’d never meant anything but work to him? Really?