Savage Prince (DeSantis Mafia Book 2)

by S. Massery

  “You’re being a dick.” The words are out before I can stop them, and… well, judging from the look on his face, I probably should’ve gone for something softer. Like… jerk or control freak.

  Eh, either of those would garner the same reaction.

  He glances at Sam. “Excuse me for a moment.”

  Fuck.

  His cousin’s expression is amused, and he watches from a distance. Aiden stalks toward me. I backpedal, inadvertently boxing myself in the kitchen. He stops inches away from me and leans forward. Nose to nose.

  I can’t breathe. I shouldn’t be afraid, and maybe it isn’t fear, exactly. But my brain isn’t cooperating, and I can’t seem to function.

  I’ve short-circuited.

  “Problem, princess?”

  “I…”

  He nods and squats suddenly, grabbing my hips. He wraps his arm around my legs, just under my ass, and rises. I could be flipped over his shoulder, I suppose, but I remain straight, Still, when he turns, I waver and grip his hair.

  “Put me down.”

  He scoffs.

  “It’s bad enough you kidnapped me.” I kick my feet, trying to hit him where it counts. The best I get is his shin, and he grunts but keeps moving. “Now you’re fucking manhandling me—”

  “Stop.”

  I yank at his hair, pulling his head back to look at me. “Don’t tell me to stop, Aiden, because you brought this on yourself.”

  He meets my gaze. The lack of emotion behind his eyes is amazing. A flicker of jealousy stirs inside me. Feigning being impassive is a trick I wish someone had taught me. Any sort of survival kit would’ve been nice to have in my arsenal, actually. As it is, I just have the books I lived on and whatever I picked up from my brother, cousins, and father.

  Which isn’t much.

  “What do you want, Gemma? You want to sit at the big girl table?”

  “I want to know what you were doing for the past five days,” I mutter, breathless.

  We get upstairs and into the room. He loosens his grip, and I slide down his front. I release his hair, too. Regrettably. It’s actually a lot softer than I would’ve imagined.

  “Hunting,” he says. He steps back, turning to go.

  Why would he stay, after all? His cousin waits for him to discuss… I don’t know, the demise of my family? All I’ve done is delay the inevitable: that he’s going to isolate me again.

  But you found the phone.

  Still.

  It isn’t enough.

  I grab his arm before he leaves, wanting to make sure I understood him correctly. “Hunting who?”

  He gives me a measured look. “Not your brother. Not yet.”

  I stumble backward, and he leaves. The door closes behind him, and I close my eyes at the definitive turn of the lock.

  Not yet, he says, as if my sacrifice means nothing. And it’s true—I gave myself up thinking it would be enough, but it isn’t. It won’t be for him, for his father.

  They want the sort of justice that comes with blood.

  8

  Gemma

  The sun is low by the time Aiden unlocks my door. He leans on the jamb, arms folded across his chest. I’m up against the windows. I have been since he left me here six hours ago, trying to pretend I’m a bird.

  “I’ll be back later,” he says.

  I don’t acknowledge him, and he leaves.

  Still thinking trap, I wait an hour before I venture downstairs. It’s empty, so I push my luck further and stride out into the hallway.

  I find my way to Cat’s apartment and bang on the door, surprised when she actually answers.

  “Gemma?”

  “I’m not going to let that asshole dictate my life,” I seethe. “And yeah, I know he’s family to you, but he keeps manhandling me. That’s not okay.”

  She beckons me inside. “Agreed.”

  “So that, coupled with the fact that I’m pretty sure I locked myself out…”

  Cat laughs. “Great, well, you picked a good night for a rebellious stage.”

  I follow her farther into the apartment, grinning that the clothes she was going to give me are still on her bed. Plus a few extras.

  “Here,” she says, tossing me a white t-shirt and black shorts. “There’s a big card game starting soon. It’s open to friends of the family, so no one will blink twice if you’re with me.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Right.”

  “We’ll just omit who you are…” She shrugs. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Sounds fun… And maybe dangerous.” I grin. “It’ll drive Aiden nuts when he finds out.”

  She cackles and shoos me to her bathroom. “You’re devious, Gemma West.”

  A half hour later, we’re dressed and in full faces of makeup. She tried to get me into a bright-pink lipstick, but I opted for dark red.

  “You’re right,” she says. “That’s a good color on you. I’ve never even worn that one.”

  My smile—and confidence—grows.

  We head out, and I expect to go downstairs. Instead, we step into the elevator, and Cat presses her thumb into a scanner, then hits the button for the twenty-eighth floor. There are only twenty-nine accessible by this elevator.

  I don’t know if this is the same as the first elevator I took when I arrived, but it would make sense if there were more. The different security measures catch my attention, too, and I file it away for later. Keycards, thumbprint scanners. I eye the ceiling and locate the camera in the corner.

  “Is there a roof?”

  She glances at me. “Yep. Not sure if you should go up there, though…”

  I shrug. “I don’t have plans of going anywhere alone.”

  “Just to my apartment.”

  “Well, that was easy to find,” I reply.

  The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open on the twenty-eighth floor. It seems like a huge… recreational area. Like a millennial co-op break room. You know, the sort you’d expect to see at tech companies in Silicon Valley. Floating chairs and an open kitchen, comfortable couches in circles. It’s got a darker, warmer feel to it. Like we’re not in a skyscraper, but a downtown bar.

  “Wow.”

  There are more DeSantis men and women here than I’ve seen since… well, since Wilder’s funeral. Then, I was in disguise. And I guess I’m in disguise here, too, unless they all know me. Who I am and why Aiden brought me here.

  “Here,” Cat says. “This is one of Sam and Aiden’s friends.”

  She leads me to a man standing next to a beer tap. He finishes pouring himself an ale and turns around, grinning first at Cat, then me.

  “Jack, this is Gemma. Gemma, Jack Morrin.”

  “Not DeSantis?” I raise my brow.

  He winks. “I wasn’t born into the family. Just raised by it.” He offers his hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  I take it, and we both pause. He pumps up and down, then releases my fingers with a soft smile.

  He tilts his head. “Sorry, I feel like I know you.”

  “She’s just my guest,” Cat says evenly. “Maybe you saw her from a bar or something.”

  Jack grins. It’s possible he doesn’t suspect I’m a West—or he doesn’t give a shit.

  “Are you staying long?”

  I shrug. “As long as they’ll have me.”

  I’ll grudgingly admit that Jack has his own immediate charm. He gives off normal vibes, if such a thing even exists in this building.

  “We have a game starting in a minute.” He gestures to the room behind us. “I assume that’s why you came.”

  “Exactly.” She takes my hand, lacing her fingers with mine. “This is the fun part. Just relax and no one will think twice.”

  This new room’s ambiance is that of a den: intimate, compounded by the haze of cigar smoke. Bookshelves frame in the room. There aren’t windows in here, just warm lights that give it the intimate vibe. There’s a bar in the corner, this one manned by a bartender. Two waitresses in sequined dresses stand off to th
e side.

  They’ve set up three tables for the games.

  “Poker at the middle table, blackjack at the other two,” Cat informs me. “I don’t have the confidence to play Texas Hold ’Em. Some of those guys are ruthless.”

  A few of the ones at that table appear to be grandfather age—but I don’t let that comfort me. Just because they’re old as shit doesn’t mean they wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet between their enemy’s eyes. Part of me wonders if they’d take one look at me—the only blonde in the room—and shoot on sight.

  But none of them even look up. Their backs remain to the door in a display of power. It’s not often we see old Mafia men. It’s considered a miracle to get past forty-five.

  Cat grins at me and drags me over to the far left table, farthest from the door. Jack is already seated there, and she pushes me down into one of the empty chairs.

  Our dealer smiles at Cat. “You got out of it this week?”

  Cat shrugs. “Pawned it off on Bea—I’ve been showing Gemma around.”

  The dealer turns her gaze to me. Her skin is the color of honey, and every part of her outfit seems to accentuate that feature. She flips her dark-brown hair over her shoulder. “Gemma. Visiting someone in the tower?”

  I swallow and force an affirmative.

  “Welcome.”

  Cat pulls out a stack of hundred dollar bills, dividing it and setting part of it in front of me.

  My eyes go wide. “Cat—”

  “Don’t,” she says. “This is nothing.”

  Jack snorts and leans toward me. “She’s a shark. She’s saying it’s nothing because she’ll win it all back by the end.”

  I clear my throat, feeling a bit out of place. Not just a bit—a lot. Half of the men in the room are in various states of business casual: collared shirts, some jackets flung over the backs of their chairs, loosened ties. Like they came here after a hard week’s work and will be decompressing for the rest of the evening. My outfit isn’t out of place between Jack and Cat, in their jeans.

  I lift one shoulder. The dealer snags the cash from in front of me, replacing it with a stack of chips. Cat hasn’t said much of anything, except that this was an event I couldn’t miss.

  It’s been five days since Aiden left, but only two since Cat first knocked on the apartment door and coaxed me into opening it.

  It’s been over a month since I had any fun.

  Cat nudges me. “You only need to beat the dealer.”

  “Cat won so much, they made her a dealer,” Jack says under his breath.

  I angle toward him, raising my eyebrows. “Why?”

  “To win money for the family,” another man says. He cranes around Jack. “You’re Cat’s friend?”

  I nod.

  He’s a bit older. Gray peppers his otherwise dark goatee, but the hair on top of his head is thick and brown. His skin is weathered, and he’s got a scar that runs over his jaw and down his neck. It disappears into his black shirt.

  “Gemma, this is Mac,” Jack introduces. “Mac is Jameson’s brother.”

  He grunts. “That’s one way of putting it. I knew a Gemma once.”

  Our dealer shuffles the cards with quick hands and offers the deck to Mac, who puts a white plastic card in the middle. She cuts it and slips it into a machine, making sure everything is just right.

  “Have you played before?” Cat asks.

  I stare at one of the waitresses moving between the tables, taking drink orders. It seems too normal—like this is a usual occurrence for them. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. Just another layer of the DeSantis family pulled back.

  “Gemma?” Cat pokes me.

  “No,” I lie, shaking my head. “I haven’t played. Are you any good, Mac?”

  “Sometimes,” he allows.

  Memories of sitting on my mother’s lap as the adults played filters through me. When I was old enough to sit in my own chair, they let me play. Mom’s voice whispers game theory to me, how to keep count. A hushed tone. Illegal, of course, as all things were that happened in the dark.

  I can’t remember all the faces now. My father sometimes hooked people that way. Lose enough money, owe enough, and a man will do anything you ask. Anything to avoid broken fingers or kneecap. Anything to avoid the shame of admitting they’ve lost everything.

  My parents only let me play when it was safe. When it was family and friends gathered around their dining room table or their den, the curtains drawn and a fire crackling in the hearth.

  Nothing like this. Here, I’m surrounded by snakes.

  “And that’s all there is to it,” Jack says.

  I belatedly realize he just explained all the rules. Maybe not all… I have a feeling he left out quite a bit.

  “Thanks.”

  “Jess,” Cat says, “we should make this more interesting.”

  The dealer grins. She hasn’t begun to lay out the cards. Judging from the murmuring conversation at the other tables and the clink of chips, she’s the only one.

  “Winner of the table takes all.” Cat announces. “And by all, I mean winner’s choice, since we’re playing until only one of us remains—obviously they walk away with the money.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “What?” she says. “It isn’t your cash.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. Jack had just finished warning me she was a card shark, and here it is in action. She’s right: it isn’t my money. But what she may choose, if she wins, could be worse than money. A favor, perhaps.

  “Count me out, Catrina,” Mac says. “This old man has lost too much to you. I’m wise to your tactics.”

  Even with the high stakes, I love a challenge. “I’m in.”

  “Sure,” Jack says evenly.

  We start the game, and I let Cat and Jack try to teach me. I can’t ask any of the questions I want, though. The important questions that have nothing to do with blackjack and everything to do with Aiden.

  Every so often, Mac’s gaze beats into me. Each time, I catch it and offer him a brilliant smile. I should be scared—I should bend my head and remain weak. But that’s bullshit, isn’t it? I can’t hide who I am forever. And being confident doesn’t translate into me being a West.

  Mac seems familiar, like he might’ve come to my parents’ home once upon a time.

  The Wests and DeSantises run in the same circles—it would be nearly impossible for us to have never seen him. I mentally shuffle through public events: charity dinners and luncheons, a ball once hosted by a politician trying to win favor—a waste of time, in my opinion. Grand openings.

  Nothing rings a bell.

  Jack is a bad player, and he laughs amicably at his mistakes. I nudge him when he wins, and he returns the favor. He doesn’t get upset when his stack of chips quickly depletes itself. For someone I’ve just met, there isn’t any tension between us.

  Cat, on the other hand, is an aggressive player. I can see why they made her a dealer. She’s smirking before she even knows the outcome, cocky in a way that I’m coming to learn is a trait of the family.

  “I’m Gemma,” I say to the final man and woman at the table. We’ve been playing for almost a half hour at this rate, and they’re the only ones who haven’t tried to make conversation. They seem to be a couple, leaning into each other, and it’s the woman who reaches out and shakes my hand.

  “Darcie,” she says. “And Tim.”

  He keeps quiet but offers me a slow nod.

  I force myself to lose repeatedly, winning only enough to keep myself in the game. Sweat prickles the back of my neck. No one paid attention to us when we entered, but I have a feeling Cat is going to draw their attention. Her laugh grows louder, and she orders both of us drinks when a waitress passes.

  Darcie goes out, and Mac is soon to follow. I glance around the other tables between hands. It seems once you’ve run out of money, you’re done. The crowd isn’t thinning—those who aren’t playing linger around the edges of the room, watching—but the number of play
ers dwindles.

  Someone touches my shoulder, and I look up. It’s just me, Jack, Cat, and Tim. But Mac is behind me, and he leans down. “It’s about time someone showed them up,” he says. “That goes for Aiden, too.”

  I frown.

  I’m in no position to show anyone up.

  But the tide shifts when Jess stops to shuffle the deck again, and she slides the stack to a stop in front of me. I meet her cool gaze and push the white plastic into the center.

  “Having fun?” Jack asks me.

  “Not until I start winning.” I smile. “I could use a favor or two.”

  Cat grins.

  The fresh deck doesn’t help, but I quickly get the count in my head. They don’t notice when my bets increase, but within the hour I’ve doubled my chips.

  Jack plays his last few and loses. He sags back in his chair and eyes me. “Beginner’s luck?”

  “Maybe.”

  We’ve captured the attention of the room now. The back of my neck burns. There are too many eyes on me, when all I’ve really wanted was invisibility. They react to everything I do: a hit, splitting my cards, passing.

  I glance over my shoulder and wink at Mac.

  Cat groans and hangs her head. “I don’t think this is beginner’s luck.”

  There’s only a few chips left in front of her, thanks to some clever maneuvering on my part. My parents taught me how to play the game, but I taught myself how to manipulate it.

  The quiet man goes out, his chair screeching backward.

  The room is silent on the next deal. I take the low card Cat needs, and she busts. So does the dealer. And that’s it. Jess swipes the last of Cat’s chips and pays me out. I stare at the mountain of chips in front of me.

  Some of the crowd whoops and cheers. A few reach out and pat my shoulders, my back. It’s nice, like they’re happy I won.

  Last woman standing.

  “You’re a hustler,” Cat squeals, hitting my arm. She only hesitates a second before wrapping her arms around me. “That was amazing.”

  I tip my head back and laugh. “That was fun.”

  “WHERE IS SHE?”

  Everyone goes still. I recognize the voice—how could I not?—and my heart jackhammers.