by Kelsie Rae
“Desperate measures as in…you haven’t been laid lately?” she razzes.
I haven’t been laid ever, but that’s beside the point.
“Shut up.” I reach for her plate and finish off her pancakes since Dottie’s too busy with other customers to serve her most loyal one.
Brat.
“For real though,” G continues. “What do you mean by desperate measures? I thought you were close to saving up enough for the buy-in.”
“Shh.” My gaze shifts over my shoulder.
Rule #8: Don’t discuss private shit in public. It’s bound to screw you over.
With a sigh, an apologetic Gigi leans forward and releases a hushed whisper. “Ace, you’re being paranoid. Everything is fine. Plus, no one knows or cares what we’re talking about. And let’s be honest, you haven’t seen any advertisements for the tournament yet, anyway. You’ve only heard rumors.”
With the mention of the tournament, my appetite disappears. I put Gigi’s fork back on the table and rest my elbows on the solid surface before tangling my fingers in my long hair and groaning in frustration. “I know, but it might be my only shot.”
“You’re only shot at what, Ace?” Gigi probes.
This is the part she doesn’t know. The why. The who.
Rule #6 is obnoxious as it flashes to the forefront of my mind. Never reveal your true identity and don’t get personal.
Not even to your best friend.
My silence is palpable; my lips forming a thin line as the truth begs to slip through.
Gigi cuts me some slack and asks another question. Well, two, if her forefinger and middle finger that are raised in the air are any indication. “One. Why are we dealing with desperate measures all of a sudden? And two. Who hit on you, and was he hot?” Her lips stretch into a grin of epic proportions, and I grab on wholeheartedly.
“One.” Mirroring her, I lift my forefinger. “I may have slipped some cash to Eddie last night. He’s the homeless guy that hangs out by my apartment. Remember? Anyway, he needs it more than I do, and it’s not like I can’t scrounge up some more money with a little lipstick and a red dress.” She scoffs as I raise my second finger. “And two, a guy named Jack. He stumbled into me while I was cashing out, and we talked for a second. He said I looked familiar, though. I think he might’ve noticed me in the past.”
“When you were counting?”
My teeth dig into my lower lip. “Probably.”
“Hmmm….” With a pucker of Gigi’s lips, she voices the same thing that’s been running through my mind all night. “Is he going to be a problem?”
With a wicked grin, I reply, “Probably.”
Chapter Five
Kingston
A knock on the door breaks my concentration as I attempt to go over the same damn files for the thousandth time today.
“Hey, Boss?”
The patience I try to muster is abysmal. “Yeah?”
With a creak, the door opens a few more inches, and one of my soldiers comes into view. “Your sister just got back.”
Grasping my neck, I squeeze the tense muscles in frustration. “Is she getting into trouble?”
“Well, not really, but—”
“Then I don’t really care. My father’s death is affecting Regina’s life as much as it’s affecting mine. We all have shit to sort out,” —I motion to the stack of papers in front of me— “so I would suggest you let me get back to it.”
“Of course, sir.”
As he grabs the handle to close the door, I stop him. “Stefan.”
“Yeah, Boss?”
“Are you shadowing her like I ordered?”
“Of course.”
I nod. “Then give her the time she needs.”
“Yes, sir.” He hovers near the doorway until I dismiss him with a quick wave of my hand as the phone on my desk rings.
My jaw clenches at another interruption. Hastily, I pick it up. “Yeah?”
“Hey, Kingston. We need to talk,” Diece’s voice rings through the phone. His brusque tone makes me sit straighter in my cushioned office chair.
“What’s going on, D?”
“Burlone is an ass. That’s what’s going on.”
I laugh, dryly. “Burlone Allegretti has always been an ass. Usually, that doesn’t constitute a phone call.” Unless it has something to do with our warehouses that Vince squealed about, I think to myself.
“Well, this time, it does. Burlone has the Feds up his ass and is getting twitchy.”
With a clenched jaw, I grit out, “And how is that my problem?”
“Because Burlone decided the best way to get out of being prosecuted for human trafficking is to frame our guys instead. He thinks that our little transition of power”—i.e., me taking my father’s place as head of the Romano Mob— “is the perfect time to get the Feds sniffing someone else’s ass instead of his own.”
“Shit.” My hand slams against my father’s oak desk. The sound echoes throughout his office. My office.
“Yeah. Shit. What are we gonna do?”
Dropping my head back, I look toward the ceiling before closing my eyes. “What do we know?”
The other end of the call goes quiet for a few brief seconds before D’s voice rolls through the speaker. “We know that he’s planning on doing an exchange near one of our warehouses outside the city.”
“Let me guess…the ones near Harbor Drive?”
“Yeah. The ones Vince talked about,” Diece replies.
“Do we know when?”
“No.”
My fist clenches around the phone, my nostrils flaring. “And how do we rectify that?”
On a sigh, D continues, “I dunno. Burlone’s men are pretty tight-lipped, King. The only thing I can think of is to get eyes inside his casino. Supposedly, that’s the only time his men let loose. But I think we both know that’s pretty fucking impossible. As soon as any of us step within a mile radius, we’re flagged.”
“Which is why they aren’t tight-lipped when they’re on their own property,” I finish.
“Exactly.”
Tapping my forefinger against my chin, I weigh my options. “Then it looks like we need to find someone who can get close, now don’t we?”
Chapter Six
Ace
My pulse spikes as I enter Sin, a casino that lives up to its name. Strippers in cages are peppered throughout the vicinity, along with big-busted women in lingerie carrying trays. With the low lighting and thumping base, I can tell I’m going to have a migraine before the night is over.
I’ve only counted at this casino a handful of times. The rules for blackjack aren’t as good here, and the male dealers don’t keep their hands to themselves, but I need to keep making the rounds, which includes Sin. I’ve put off coming here for too long. It doesn’t matter that Burlone owns the place and makes my stomach churn anytime I see him. I need to find out if the opportunity I’ve been anticipating is happening or not.
Scanning the walls, I search for an announcement of the tournament I’ve been prepping for but come up empty. With a sigh, I approach a blackjack table and get ready for a long night of counting while praying I don’t run into Burlone while I’m here.
Not yet.
The decks have been shit all night. I can’t get a solid streak of low cards played in order to justify raising my bet. Hell, I’ve been bleeding chips for the past three hours, and it’s been driving me insane.
In order to follow Rule #5: Be a machine, I need to bet the minimum until I see the deck get hot. That’s when I bet big. Unfortunately for me, it hasn’t happened yet.
Sucking my lips into my mouth in frustration, I watch the dealer shuffle the deck one more time.
“Fancy seeing you here,” a vaguely familiar voice calls from my right.
My head swivels in its direction before my jaw almost touches the ground.
Jack.
“Uh…hi?”
“Seems you and I share a similar interest.” He gives me a
knowing smirk before dropping some cash onto the table for the dealer to exchange for chips.
My back is ramrod straight, as I consider my options.
Rule #3: If something feels fishy, it probably is. Trust your instincts.
He doesn’t feel threatening, just…smart. And observant. Like me.
“Seems we do,” I mutter under my breath. Refocusing on the dealer, I watch as he begins flipping cards.
The hands go by in a blur until a series of low cards start popping up. My gaze darts to Jack as he flips a chip between his knuckles like a seasoned pro. Glancing back at the table, I see a few more low cards revealed.
Slowly, my lungs expand to full capacity as I give myself a mental pep talk. Ace. If you’re gonna make up for the chips you’ve bled tonight, then you need to bet big on this next hand.
Again, I give Jack the side-eye. He seems pleasant enough. Doesn’t give me any vibes that he’s an undercover pit boss looking to drag me away. That’s a good sign, right? If I’m going to follow Rule #5, then I can’t let my emotions get in the way. Be. A. Machine. The statistics work, but only if I play without my emotions. However, if I tip Jack off to me being a card-counter, and he turns out to not be as friendly as he seems, I’ll be screwed.
With a gulp, I push the rest of my chips forward.
The dealer quirks his brow but doesn’t comment.
“Feeling lucky, Ace?” Jack teases by my side.
I toss a look his way before shrugging innocently. “Go big or go home, right? Plus, it’s getting late. I need to get going.”
Throwing his head back, he laughs. “I like your thinking.” With a casual flick of his wrist, he puts the rest of his chips onto the table.
The dealer ignores our banter as he starts placing the cards around the table. First, he puts a card face down in front of himself, then deals to his left, which is Jack’s card. Ironically, a jack of diamonds is shown. My turn. Nine of clubs.
Not bad. Not great. But not bad. It’ll calm my nerves when I see the dealer’s second card. A ten. In the blink of an eye, I’m running the probability of me coming out ahead, but it doesn’t look great.
Next, another ten for Jack. He’s in the clear. Now it’s my turn. Again. A queen. I can work with a queen. I’m at nineteen, and as long as the dealer doesn’t show a face card or a ten, then I should be good. My head bobs up and down on its own accord as the dealer flips over his bottom card to reveal an eight of clubs. With a fishy face, I release the gust of air I’d been holding in my lungs.
“Damn, Ace. If that’s not luck, I don’t know what is.” Jack winks for good measure as I laugh off his lame joke, relief pulsing through my veins.
“Thanks. I’m just glad the cards were in my favor tonight.”
The dealer collects the rest of the deck then pushes a separate stack of chips each for Jack and me. Tossing one back to the dealer as a tip, I collect the rest and stand from my chair before the pit boss catches on to me.
“Calling it a night?” Jack follows my lead, stacking his chips before rising to his feet.
“Yup.”
“Want me to walk you out or anything?”
Placing my hands, and subsequently the chips, into the front pocket of my hoodie, I shake my head. “Nah. Boyfriend is waiting for me so….”
“Boyfriend?” With a quirked brow, a knowing Jack smirks down at me.
“Yup. Boyfriend.”
“Does boyfriend have a name?” he teases.
Of course, it’s at this moment that my brain short-circuits, and I can’t come up with a masculine name for the life of me.
After a chorus of crickets, my voice squeaks, “Yup. Bye!” I turn on my heel to make my escape from a guy who’s becoming way too familiar with me then rush toward the cashier to exchange my chips for bills. Thankfully, only Jack’s laughter follows me.
After I collect my cash and intending to head to Dottie’s, I freeze when the sound of a voice that’s haunted my dreams since I was a little girl floats through the smoky air.
“I’ll be here with a thousand witnesses as I play in the tournament. It’s foolproof.”
My breath catches in my throat, making me feel like I’m choking as I glance over my shoulder.
It’s him.
He always did have a big mouth. After all, I learned the importance of Rule #8 from him in the first place.
Rule #8: Don’t discuss private shit in public. It’s bound to screw you over.
Idiots.
Swallowing thickly, I let Rule #1 and #2 flash like a neon sign in my mind as I pull out my phone and pretend to text someone. Keep your head down and your eyes up. It makes you invisible. But not stupid. And always be aware of your surroundings.
I listen closer while hiding in plain sight.
Again, I peek up to see the man whom I hate more than anyone else in the world. He looks older than I remember, but I guess that makes sense since it’s been almost ten years. His hair is thinner and tinted with gray. His once muscular build has turned into a few layers of extra fat that hang over his polished belt buckle. But his hands are the same. Decorated with gold embellishments. Strong. Able to break things with a lazily clenched fist. Like my mom’s nose. Or our family picture that once hung on our wall. Or a twelve-year-old’s arm.
I squeeze my eyes shut and push the memory away before gaining the courage to open them and assess the rest of his crew.
Standing next to Burlone is a clean-cut guy with a massive ‘X’ tattooed on his forearm and another man with a diamond tattoo printed below his right eye on his cheekbone. I purse my lips for a split second, committing them both to memory before turning my gaze back to the blank screen on my phone. My thumbs slide across the glass as I listen closely.
“I’m just saying we need to be careful. I think the Romanos know something’s up,” argues Mr. X as his gaze scans the casino in suspicion. “And I would suggest we take this conversation upstairs, Boss.”
Shit. Looks like we found someone with a brain.
“Stop being a pussy, Dex. They can think whatever the hell they want,” diamond guy states before pressing the elevator button. “The fact is, they don’t know shit. Let’s keep it that way.”
Burlone sets his big burly hands on their shoulders before shoving them into the lift. “Gentlemen, stop being so dramatic. I’ve designed this plan to be foolproof. And my plans never fail—”
The doors slide closed, cutting off his confident remark and leaving me with more questions than answers. The only useful bit of information was the mention of the tournament. The one I plan on winning so I can get out of this hellhole while simultaneously hitting Burlone where it hurts.
His pride––and his wallet.
Chapter Seven
Ace
With sweaty palms, I grip the handle of Dottie’s door and enter one of the few places I feel comfortable.
“Hey!” I greet Gigi as I slide into my seat.
“Hey, you. What’s going on?” She scans me up and down before her eyes land on my face. “You look spooked.”
My brows furrow. “Really? Is it that obvious? Apparently, my poker face is shit.”
On a laugh, a laid-back Gigi argues, “Naw. I just know you too well. What happened?”
My teeth dig into my lower lip for a few seconds before ignoring Rule #6 and telling her the truth. “I saw him.”
“Him?”
“Burlone. The guy who used to beat my mom and me. The one who introduced her to drugs in the first place. Hell, when I look back, I’m pretty sure he was my mom’s pimp or something.” Gigi’s jaw drops as I reveal something so personal. It’s not like me, but right now I need someone else’s perspective or else I’m going to go crazy.
Swallowing my doubt, I continue, “He owns a casino and is one of the big players at the tournament I’m wanting to enter. Actually,…he’s the only big player. Burlone has never lost a tournament before. Sure, he’s lost a few hands here and there, but he always comes out on top. Always.”
My lips tilt up on one side. “Because I learned from the best.”
A very confused Gigi leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “But I thought you just said….”
“Yup. And I know every single one of his tells.”
“How the hell did that happen?”
Reaching for Gigi’s cup of coffee, I take a quick swig in hopes of it washing away the bitter memories of Burlone and my childhood. Unfortunately, it only adds to them. “After he’d finish with my mom, she’d stay cooped up in her room, and he’d light a cigar. He’d sit at our old kitchen table and shuffle a deck of cards. Over and over again, I’d watch through the crack of my bedroom door, waiting for him to leave while praying he wouldn’t see me. But he’d stay for hours, shuffling those damn cards, and I’d watch because I was too terrified to do anything else.”
Gigi’s face is blank, but I can tell she’s absorbing every word. “Why would he stay?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s because he liked proving he owned my mom. It was just another way to show her she was helpless. That she couldn’t control what he did. Even in her own home.”
With a nod, G silently urges me to continue, so I do. “And then, one day, he invited another guy over. Pretty sure this was the first time my mom was pimped out but….” I shrug like it isn’t a big deal when in reality, it’s one of my most scarring memories as a kid. “After he finished with my mom, they played a hand of poker. Then two, then three. They stayed the night, and I watched from my crack in the door. I couldn’t see the cards, only his face. Every muscle twitch. Every pursed lip. Every brush of the cards. Everything.”
“But if you couldn’t see the cards….”
I laugh dryly before offering, “I didn’t need to see the cards. Not in the beginning. I needed to learn how to read people. And I did. But you’re right. At one point, I needed to learn the basic rules other than figuring out people’s tells. Which is when I met Joe.”