Page 9 of A New Days Don

Vicek looks me up and down, gesturing to his gear, a silent way to tell me to do the same. I slowly return to my cruiser, keeping a wary eye on Vicek, who is glaring at the rundown house.

Does he think this is where the killer lives?

Why wouldn’t he update me on this?

I flex my hands in frustration, listening for anything that would suggest someone was in the house we are currently parked out front of, but the silence is almost eerie. Where Vegas is usually lit up like a Christmas tree and polluted with noise from cars and casinos, this street on the outskirts hasn’t been affected by the spread of its ritz yet.

By the time I’m dressed in my vest, my gun, taser, and spray secured to my belt, Vicek is off the phone.

“What–”

Vicek cuts me off with a glare, “Drug bust. Get ready to go in. Expect them to be armed.”

“But nobody else is here.” I look around the empty street, trying to spot the van that usually joins officers on raids. We are alone.

“It’s not a big operation. But we need to remain sneaky. Keep up, Lewis.” That’s all Vicek says as he prepares his gun, and I do the same then follow him along the edge of the property toward the backyard. The backyard is in as much disarray as the front of the house, with spare tires strewn about and a partially fallen tree that has broken an old shed.

Vicek looks back, his dark eyes penetrating mine, making me stiffen. I glare back at him, trying desperately to calm my breathing as my heart beats heavily against my chest. Something isn’t right.

I should go back, but when Vicek pushes me through the crack in the fence to the house that sits on the property behind this one, I know I won’t be going home without fighting my way through this.

Vicek takes the lead once more. This house looks more put together and lived-in than the first one, but it's still partially dilapidated with its roof collapsing. I follow close behind Vicek as we enter the building through a slightly ajar back door, the sound of inebriated men and women echoing through the house. My gun feels heavy in my hands as I look to Vicek, who looks almost rabid as he eyes the darkened house.

It’s not that I have never run a drug bust. In my early days, especially, but how does this have to do with our current case, and why is Vicek acting alone?

Chapter 3

Massimo

My gaze shifts to the man on the opposite end of the blackjack table. His bald head, save for two or three hairs that he hasn’t trimmed or plucked, is spackled with sunspots from years of neglecting to wear sunscreen. I shift my gaze back to the hand I have been dealt. I want to scoff at the trivial game. The strategies for blackjack are simple and mundane. I am more of a poker guy myself, but I am not here to play for fun. This is strictly business, and my business is currently turning red with his own frustration, but his addiction will keep him here for another couple of rounds.

But I don’t mind. Unlike many in my field, I don’t like to draw out a long, bloody torture session. I like to watch my victims become lost in their minds. I enjoy driving them to make mistakes solely because they think they’re going crazy. To torture themselves as I slowly whittle away at their psyche. Then and only then will I strike.

Baldy here has been playing the game for over a week now. He thinks he’s being followed, but can’t prove it. After a few subliminal images, songs, and playing cards, he has begun to journal everything. An entire notebook full of scribbles and ‘signs.’ Once I managed to get into his now ex-girlfriend's head, sending her off after making her cum while she was getting a massage, he thought she was the traitor. The one giving him bad luck.

The sociopathic freak honestly believed she was the reason for half his drugs disappearing and a dismembered thug buddy stuffed into his trunk. He knows someone is close, someone is tracing him and following his every move. What he doesn’t know is that it’s the reaper, waiting for him to slip up and give me the information I seek.

He takes another sip of the fruity, too strong beverage he is drinking, his fists clenching as he sees I have won again.

“What the fuck!” Baldy growls. His ears are burning a bright crimson as his blood pressure elevates some more.

“Another round?” The dealer asks, and he nods aggressively, the alcohol clearly wreaking havoc in his veins. The dealer turns to me, and I nod. Another round it is.

My leg threatens to tap under the table. Irritated with this motherfucker, and ready to get the information I need, but I don’t let it. Another twenty-thousand-dollar bet, another brow raised in his direction as he hesitates but pushes a larger lump sum toward the centre of the table.

Heaven forbid a man be outdone. He may want to bet lower, but he won’t, not when I’m showing him up and raking in more cash with each passing second. Not that I need the money, my clubs bring in more than enough revenue to fund this little game of blackjack.

The house gets blackjack, leading us both to a loss, and Baldy’s face turns a sickly-looking shade of deep red. For a moment, I wonder if he will burst that pulsing vein in the side of his head, but then he roughly pushes back from his seat, cursing and muttering unintelligibly under his breath as he walks out of the room.

The dimly lit blackjack tables turn into obnoxiously bright slot machines, chiming with each win. I follow quietly, observing as the man scowls towards a group of women cheering over their friend’s lottery win. Before slipping out the side door of the casino and following Baldy through his tracker on my phone.

The suffocating heat of Las Vegas slams into me like a wall as I step out onto the metal-grated stairs. The steel whines under the weight of my boot as I slip through the dark alleyway and toward the parking garage.

I didn’t miss the perpetually hot air of Las Vegas summer. Who decided to build a metropolis in the middle of a fucking desert is beyond me. Then again, I might be the insane one, returning to these desecrated streets. I wouldn’t have come back if some asshole hadn’t murdered my father, Don of the Vegas mafia and left me in the ruin of his throne.

The last thing I want to do is run his business, but if that is the only way to find the men who left my father’s decapitated head wrapped in a bloodied Colombia flag on my doorstep, then I will fucking bleed this city dry.

I slip into my blacked-out Audi S5, getting a head start to turn on my engine and wait in idle. It’s not long before my target of the evening comes out yammering on to himself. Most likely about his loss of over two hundred thousand dollars.