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The Russians have requested Casey, one of our female dealers, for their table. She’s setting up on the far side of the room, closest to the back room and the concealed exit.
The paneling in the wall opens to a hidden door leading to a confined staircase that finishes at an underground tunnel. The tunnel comes up two blocks away in the basement of an office building with an underground parking garage where we keep two getaway cars. In case those fucking vice cops ever grow a set of balls and try to come in here.
Our high rollers and most of the Russians usually use the tunnel as their entry and exit. They and their guests will be using it tonight.
I have a security guard standing beside it, and we have men waiting in the underground parking garage to meet them and escort them in. They will drop a lot of cash on the tables tonight, so I’m happy to roll out the executive service.
The extra security knows it is regulars only tonight, no tourists. We want to showcase the best for the Russians and their guests, especially since things with the Italians are fraught.
Speaking of Italians, I nod as Matteo De Luca strolls into the room, smiling as he accepts a whiskey from one of the waitresses.
"You wanted me to come early tonight, Fitzpatrick?” He raises an eyebrow, sipping his whiskey as he comes to a halt beside me.
Matteo De Luca is one of the youngest capos in the Bianchi Crime Family. He has played my tables for at least ten years.
“There’s going to be a large contingent of Russians tonight.”
Matteo sighs as he shrugs, taking another sip of his whiskey. “So you need me to be a good boy and fuck off?”
A smirk tugs at my lips. “That wouldn’t be very sporting of me.”
“No. It wouldn’t.”
“I also wouldn’t make you come over to West Boston to tell you to stay away. I could have told you that over the phone.”
His eyebrows raise again in a question. I gesture toward a table near the door to the staircase, the farthest from where Casey lays out the chips on her table. De Luca’s eyes drift over it, and he grimaces.
“Table two. Really? Should I be insulted?”
“No tourists tonight. Only regulars.”
“I suppose it’s table two or leave?”
“They do say you’re a clever guy.”
Snorting, he takes his whiskey, handing a stack of cash to the dealer, who shunts a stack of chips toward him. Sinking into his seat, De Luca’s eyes dance back over me.
“You owe me for this, Lucky.”
“Your co-operation is noted and much appreciated.”
Grunting, he sips his whiskey, turning to the door where some Irish lads walk in, dropping down onto the table with him. Well. That’s one disaster averted.
It would make things easier if the Italians and Russians got along. Sean was all for De Luca being barred tonight, but he's a cool, collected guy, a good gambler, and I like the lad.
There is a knock on the panel across the room, and I move across as the security guard opens the concealed door, stepping back to let the large group through.
The first through the door is one of the Bratoks –the Russian version of a made man. His eyes flicker around the room, and he steps out of the doorway, allowing Alexei Yahontov, the Avtoritet who contacted me about tonight, and the guests into the room.
Alexei steps through, his eyes moving around, stopping on De Luca. The two exchange a nod as Alexei turns back to me. Alexei is the equivalent of a capo, and the two are polite when they cross paths in this room. We don’t allow people to bring their friction in here. You set that shite aside, or you stay out.
De Luca turns back to his table, saying something to one of the Irish lads seated there. They laugh, and Alexei draws my attention back to him, introducing his guests.
They spread out around the table, eyeing Casey appreciatively. I don’t speak Russian, but I am a man, so I have little doubt about what they’re saying to each other.
Casey deals the first hand as I stride through the space, stopping to talk to some of the regulars. Everything is going smoothly so far. Hopefully, it stays that way.
Things go well for about half the night, but things go to fucking shite around midnight. One of the Russian guests starts getting handsy with Casey, which isn’t fucking okay. You can look at our dealers – hell, you can say whatever shite you want about them in a language they don’t understand –but touching them is out of the question.
