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A hint of regret hits me for ditching the burner. It could mess with our fate, but if we’re so destined to be, Antonio will find another way to see me again.
4
I pay a janitor a hundred dollars to block the women’s restroom for maintenance so I can retrieve the burner from the trash can. Gigi’s little stunt is more impressive than infuriating. Sure, it’s annoying I can’t communicate with her through the phone, but it shows she cares about her family more than herself. Cristian taught her well.
“You’re playing with fire,” Vinny warns when we leave the gala. “No, you’re playing withdeath. Cristian rejected the marriage offer, which means Gigi is off-limits to you.”
Earlier, we were mid-conversation when I spotted Gigi enter the restroom.
“I was talking business with a Marchetti—that’s all.” I smooth out my blazer’s collar.
My shirt carries Gigi’s scent, serving as a reminder of how good it felt to touch and kiss her.
I want a repeat.
I wantmorenext time.
“Business.” He snorts and fake wipes something off his cheek. “Did you use red lipstick to seal the deal? It seems you forgot some.”
I don’t wipe my face. No way am I removing a trace of Gigi off my skin.
“Mybusinessdoesn’t concern you.”
“She’s the most off-limits woman you could want.”
I shake my head and hand him the burner. “No one is off-limits to me.”
I exist in a world steeped in corruption.
A full circle of crookedness.
My great-grandfather founded Lucky Kings in 1946. It’s ourlegalbusiness—a clean paper trail to keep the IRS off our backs.
The Marchettis own their club, Seven Seconds, to make themselves appear legit.
The Cavallaros have a line of alteration shops and laundromats.
We have Lucky Kings.
It’s the largest and most profitable casino in the state, and my father expects us to help it run smoothly.
Now, that’s not to say we still aren’t corrupt as fuck.
We most definitely are.
Today, my problem is Jack Jethro, a bookie we banned from the Lucky Kings weeks ago. He’s a piece of shit who frequents casinos in search of desperate people who gambled all their money away. For years, we allowed him to find clients here for a fee. But then another bookie offered us a higher price. So we ended our agreement with Jack, but the fuckers like a gnat that won’t go away.
When I enter the room, Jack sits in a chair, thrumming three fingers against the table in front of him. His thumb and pointerfinger don’t reach the table because they’re now stubs. I cut them off a year ago when he failed to pay us our full percentage. Now, he’s about to lose more.
I slam my palms on the table. “Did you think if you came during the day, I wouldn’t find out?”
He stares at me, gritting his teeth, but fails to answer.
“What did I tell you about coming here, Jack?”
The motherfucker struggles for words, so I help by backhanding him in the face. Knock some sense into his dumbass.
This is his second strike.
