He would lose his shit—or worse.
“Please, Mitchell,” I said, “give me time.” I began tossing the pillows, praying for what I believed wasn’t present.
Shit.
I’d let down my guard.
With a sigh, I turned and stared into Mitchell’s gaze, fighting the tears pooling in my eyes.
I wasn’t a crier. I wasn’t a lot of things, or at least, I’d learned not to be.
The consequences of last night would be far greater than sore muscles.
Patrick accused me of coming to town to fuck with him. In reality, he’d tracked me down to do the same.
Literally and now figuratively.
‘I want to kill you or fuck you.’
My knees gave way at the building nausea as I sank to the edge of the bed. It seemed he’d done both. Because losing Andros’s money would be my death.
A tear escaped my lower lid and tracked down my cheek.
With my head tilted forward, I saw Mitchell’s shoes as he neared. Swallowing the tears, I looked up and lifted my hand, palm forward. “Please, Mitchell, stop. I was asleep.” I looked down at the robe. “I mean look at me. You woke me. I was exhausted last night. I told you that. I’m disoriented. The purse is here. I had it in the cab and at the front counter last night, remember?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Just give me a damn minute. I’ll find it, and I’ll be ready for tonight’s tournament.”
Indecision showed in his eyes when he reached in his pocket, pulling out his phone. Without a word, he placed a call.
I wrapped my arms around my midsection, knowing who would be on the other end. Bile continued to churn in my stomach, reminding me that I’d never called for room service.
That’s what I needed, food.
Right, because food would save me from Andros.
“Yes, sir,” Mitchell said into his phone as he continued to gaze my direction. “She’s here. It looks like she’s been asleep.” Pause. “No, I don’t think so.” His shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know.” He looked at me. “You leave the room since I left you here?”
My head shook. It was one question I could answer honestly. “No. I didn’t.”
“Yes, sir.” Mitchell handed his phone my direction with a warning gaze. “He wants to talk to you.”
Patrick
Three sets of eyes turned my direction as the metal door slid open and I entered two.
Two was how we referred to the floor of our compound high in Chicago’s skyline that contained the headquarters for the Sparrow outfit. In reality, it was the ninety-fourth story of one of Chicago’s tallest buildings, the floor that was only accessible to the elite in the organization. It was where the leaders of the outfit did what we did, what we do now, run Chicago.
Underground and aboveground.
Nothing happened without our approval.
On this floor with our wealth of technology we were capable of monitoring the streets of our city in a way outfits of the past never imagined. That didn’t mean we didn’t have eyes and ears on the ground, we did. The technology was our way of confirming that whatever the eyes and ears told us was accurate.
One set of eyes looking my way belonged to the kingpin, the boss of Chicago’s underworld, a Fortune 500 CEO, and one of my closest friends, Sterling Sparrow. The other two sets belonged to the other two men, also my close friends that Sparrow and I had the honor of serving our country with before focusing our talents on the 234 square miles known as Chicago: Reid Murray and Mason Pierce.
Taking a deep breath, I ran my hand over my damp, freshly showered hair.
“Late night?” Sparrow asked.
“Later than I planned,” I replied.
I’d stayed with Maddie until late into the night, actually early in the morning. Leaving her took more willpower than I feared I could muster. She was so fucking beautiful lying there, her long hair mussed, makeup smeared or worn away, her lips bruised and swollen, and the best part: her soft, warm, naked body curled against me like it had been long ago in a ratty old sleeping bag. Damn, even thinking about it made my dick twitch.
It had been nearing four this morning when I made it back here and to my apartment one story above us. For all I knew, some of these men may have been up and working right where we now were. However, appearing in the middle of the night disheveled and fresh from the best sex of my life didn’t seem like the wise choice—not if I didn’t want a thousand questions or to reveal the secret I didn’t realize I had withheld over the years until I saw Madeline.
After a quick shower, I collapsed into bed only to wake about thirty minutes ago to an hour-old text from Reid asking why I wasn’t here. Instead of answering, I showered again, grabbed a mug of hot coffee, and made my way to two, our headquarters.
Taking a drink of steaming coffee, I looked up at the screen overhead, the focus of everyone’s attention. “Did I miss something?”
“You were there. We’re waiting for you to fill us in,” Mason said.
Sitting in the empty chair, I stared upward. What was before us appeared to be an aerial view, similar to Google maps, but with real-time accuracy. Reid had figured out how to tap into not only street cameras and private security feeds, but also satellite feeds. What made that even more impressive, not that it wasn’t, was that with Mason’s help, they’d discovered how to control the focus, zooming in and out, again in real time. I wasn’t bad at the whole technology thing and neither was Sparrow. However, neither of us boasted of knowing more than our resident technology geeks.
Lack of sleep wasn’t unusual in our world. When there were fires—literal and metaphoric—needing our attention, we could go days with only small catnaps. The difference for me was that last night wasn’t a usual fire. It was a different kind of fire, one simmering in my soul. Everything that happened last night had my mind spinning and my body on overdrive.
I shook my head. “The snow from a few days ago is still covering rooftops. Help a man out. What am I seeing?”
“Where were you last night, Patrick?” Sparrow asked.
While I could have inferred more from his question, his tone didn’t suggest an issue.
“Club Regal,” I replied. “The first round of their big poker tournament was last night. It started with forty-two players, each one paying a hefty entrance fee. Now it’s down to thirty.” It was as I answered, I realized that was what we were seeing, the rooftops of Club Regal as well as neighboring buildings.
“The rumors are flying at all levels of the city,” Reid said. “Tell us if it’s true.”
Rumors?
I hadn’t expected that.
Who saw me and Madeline talking?
Was I spotted going into her hotel room or leaving?
Lifting my coffee, I stood, taking a few steps as I determined the best strategy for my confession, for telling my three best friends that I’d left a small yet significant part out of my biography. It wasn’t something I was prepared to admit. Nevertheless, they deserved to know. The sentences formed in my head. Oh, by the way, when I was eighteen, before I met all of you, I married this girl. A few months later she disappeared. Word on the street was that she died, the casualty of random violence. It happens even today. When I found no clues, I gave up. I joined the army to get away from the memories. But, hey, don’t worry. Last night I saw her again. And since we never divorced, she’s still my wife.
Then Reid’s deep voice penetrated my fog.
“...said he bought in. He left town after his dad and McFadden went down. Why would he come back?”
I let out a long breath.
They weren’t talking about Maddie. The rumors they’d mentioned were about Antonio Hillman, a man with close connections to the now-defunct McFadden outfit, the outfit that had co-ruled Chicago since before any of us were born, the one whose leader was now serving time for unimaginable crimes against children.
I focused on what I’d heard. “At the end of the night,” I said, “before announc
ing the placements for round two, the club made the announcement about Hillman.”
“And you didn’t think it was significant?” Mason asked.
My neck straightened. “I did. It was. It is.” I took a breath. “Antonio wasn’t there. I checked the entire club. I didn’t see anyone who was previously in his or his father’s entourage. According to the announcement, the younger Hillman is supposed to arrive to Club Regal tonight.”
“He’s a cocky son of a bitch,” Reid said.
Sparrow stood. “I don’t like it. The move is fucking brazen. The money-laundering son of McFadden’s imprisoned consigliere, who hasn’t been seen around here since his father’s trial, comes back to Chicago and not under the radar. He comes back paying seventy-five grand to buy into a poker tournament. Why?”
“He wasn’t convicted of the money laundering,” Reid said.
“Because he was never charged,” I added. “The feds concentrated on Rubio and Wendell.”
“Which, as we’ve been saying, leaves other players in the McFadden outfit we haven’t gotten to yet, ones who disappeared, like Antonio.” Sparrow inhaled and lifted both hands to the top of his head. His biceps flexed beneath the sleeves of his gray t-shirt like they did when he was concentrating. “There’s something else happening.” Sparrow turned to me. “Tell us everything about Club Regal last night. Everything. I’m fucking ecstatic that we had a man on the scene. One of the best.” He reached for a chair, spun it around, and straddled the back. “Was there anything that felt unusual? Anything or anyone who stood out—caught your attention?”
Shit.
Yes, but I wasn’t ready to say, not until I knew more.
I began recounting my honest memories of the night, the patrons, security, and the tournament itself. During those recollections, I conveniently excluded mentioning Madeline; however, I did mention the high roller Marion Elliott. There had been a constant buzz of whispers at his presence. I’d done some research and he deserved the hype. He had one of the longest lists of tournament wins and therefore, one of the highest lifetime earnings. His age was an obvious contributing factor.
“I saw him,” I said, “and watched him play. He deserves his reputation, but he’s also old.”
Reid was typing on another keyboard. On a different screen, Marion Elliott’s picture appeared. “This him?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “but that picture is old or photoshopped. Last night, he looked ten years older, at least.”
“It says here,” Reid began to read, “Marion Elliott, born in Houston, Texas.” He nodded as he continued reading. “Well, according to this he’s thirty years older than us.”
Of course, we didn’t all have the same birth date. However, all joining the army at eighteen and meeting in basic training, we were close in age. The four of us exchanged looks as we contemplated Reid’s finding.
“How old is McFadden now?” I asked.
“Early seventies,” Sparrow said. “My father would be one year older.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know. There’s no known connection to this Elliott and McFadden’s outfit.”
“None has come up so far,” Mason said.
“Yeah, it doesn’t mean it didn’t exist,” I said. “And we know there’s a connection between Hillman and McFadden.”
“Why here? Why now?” Reid asked.
“Because since we’ve squashed McFadden, every two-bit hustler thinks Chicago is ripe for the picking,” Sparrow said with more than a bit of exasperation to his tone. “It’s fucking exhausting.”
“You proved them all wrong when you took over the Sparrow outfit and then when you squashed McFadden,” I said. “You’ll continue to prove them wrong now. I think it has to do with McFadden himself. He was fucking diversified and his trial received a lot of press. Now he’s appealing the trafficking charges and it’s all over the news media outlets. It’s like an advertisement to people near and far: come to Chicago and take Rubio McFadden’s place at the top of the city. These assholes don’t know you or what Sparrow is capable of achieving. Fuck, what we have achieved.”
I wasn’t kissing up because I’d lost focus last night. I believed every damn word I was saying.
“They don’t know the Sparrow outfit,” Sparrow replied. “We need to be on this one hundred percent. I don’t like what I’m feeling. I can’t fucking put my finger on it, but damn, it’s—”
“Gut,” Mason said. “I trust any one of our guts more than all the fucking technology in this room.” Mason turned to me. “How did Elliott respond when the announcement was made about Hillman’s buy-in?”
Elliott wasn’t who had my attention.
“The whole room was pissed,” I said. “Gasps and murmurs and shit. I was surprised Club Regal would allow it on the second day. It seemed shitty to me.”
“Did he seem surprised?” Mason asked.
I shook my head. “One of the best poker players in the world doesn’t show emotion.”
While my friends nodded, my mind went to one poker player who finally did. When I arrived at her hotel room, I hadn’t been sure that we could be honest with one another, Madeline and I. But we were, at least physically we were—raw, primal, and fucking real.
Sparrow’s pacing came to a stop. He turned a 180 and looked my way. His brown eyes were open wide. “What did you just say?”
“Not showing emotion?” Fuck, I was having trouble keeping up.
“No,” Mason said, his eyes widening too. “About Club Regal.”
Sparrow nodded. “Yes, exactly. It might be shitty, but the club allowed Hillman’s buy-in.”
As Reid and I exchanged looks, for a moment I was pleased to not be the only person not following this train of thought.
Sparrow’s grin grew. “We all know which one of us is the best chess player.” His dark gaze went to Mason who shook his head.
The two of them had been arguing their supremacy for as long as I could remember.
“I’d put my money on Patrick at a poker table,” Sparrow went on. “Cards are nothing more than math and memory. Fucking no one in this room is better at either than you.” He was looking directly at me.
By the time he finished speaking, my blood had cooled until it settled near my feet. I rarely felt light-headed, but now I did. I could cut a man’s throat and watch him bleed out. This was different. I reached for the chair. “You want me to buy in to Club Regal’s tournament? Now? And play tonight?”
“Fuck yes,” Sparrow replied. “Hillman got in for seventy-five. Make a phone call, or better yet, a visit. There’s no way the club will deny a request from Sparrow. Not if they want to stay in business. Hillman has been quiet for a while now, but damn, I’d guess his buy-in was paid for by dirty McFadden money. That fucking old man may be rotting in prison for the rest of his life, but he’s not going to lie down and let me rule. His hatred is too strong. He wants revenge. And that could include Araneae. We aren’t allowing it. This needs to end.”
Araneae was his wife. Is his wife.
“They ranked Hillman at the bottom of tonight’s play, number thirty,” I said.
Sparrow nodded. “Seventy-five grand got him the bottom of the barrel. Find out what a hundred Gs and a twenty-five percent reduction in this tournament’s taxes will do.”
My eyes opened wide. That’s a crazy amount of money. “And you expect me to stay in this tournament and to make it to tomorrow?”
The grin growing across Sparrow’s face reached his eyes. “No, I don’t expect that.”
I exhaled.
“I expect you to win the whole fucking thing.”
Madeline
Willing my hand not to shake, I reached out for Mitchell’s phone. One breath in and one breath out. I closed my eyes, imagining the face of the man on the other end of the call. The image wasn’t comforting. Andros was the leader of the Ivanov bratva for a reason. He was nearly ten years my senior, tall and broad, with a commanding voice that could intimidate the toughest capos. He also had a stare that coul
d send shivers down your spine. A cold, dead stare like that of a shark. Andros sensed prey the same way the shark smelled blood. It was an uncanny ability that no doubt aided in his position.
I’d stood dutifully nearby as he’d ordered horrendous crimes against men and women, knowing he took a perverse pleasure in the knowledge of their suffering. I’d been his release for pleasure and anger. I’d watched as he rejoiced in victories and raged over defeats. No matter the circumstance, nothing brought life to his dark eyes.
With one last deep breath, I put the phone to my ear. “Hello, Andros.”
For a moment, I thought maybe I’d waited too long to speak and that the line had gone dead.
For only a moment.
“My dear, I’ve been worried.”
To the untrained ear, the kingpin of Detroit’s underground may sound gentlemanly or even debonair. That same person could misconstrue his liquid-silk baritone timbre as sincerity and his words as concern.
I wasn’t untrained.
Years of servitude had taught me hard lessons.
Andros Ivanov was not gentlemanly, debonair, sincere, or concerned.
Yes, he could imitate those qualities.
If I were a man in his bratva who had ignored his calls—I hoped he didn’t know about the chip receipt—my greeting no doubt would have been harsher. If we were together in the same room, I was most certain it would be also.
I said a small prayer of thanksgiving that neither of those circumstances was different.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to worry you. I hope you know that. This wasn’t intentional.”
“Hope. It’s such an interesting choice of word—to hope is to feel expectation. You see, my dear, that was what I had last night upon hearing from Mitchell that you had returned safely to your room, had recovered most of my losses, and secured a seat at tonight’s tables. I had hope. My hope was to discuss it with you personally.”
Vote Then Read: Volume III Page 8