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“Youtoldmeyou were going straight, Little P.”
Nico’s voice touches my back from the other side of the bar and I sigh into the cocktail shaker. Last night, as I scurried through the cave bar trying to make the most of Raphael’s phony ten-second head start, I caught Nico’s eye from the poker table. He looked at me, then to his cousin and back again, and by the spark of annoyance in his gaze, I knew this conversation was imminent.
“I’m as straight as a ruler these days.”
“There’s nothing straight about teaching Rory how to card count.”
I brave looking at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, hoping my angelic smile will soften his edges.
It doesn’t.
“And you better have kept my name out of it.”
Now that’s a promise I won’t break. “C’mon, Nico. That’s a given.”
Ignoring the heat of his eyes on me, I pour rum, sugar syrup, and mint over ice, glancing at the recipe I’ve written on the inside of my wrist to make sure I don’t fuck it up. Turning around with the cocktail shaker in hand, I try my angelic smile on Nico again. You know; just in case he didn’t see it the first time. “Fancy being a guinea pig for my first-ever mojito? It’s on the house.”
He stares at me. “I’m a Visconti. Everything’s on the house.”
“Christ, how this yacht makes any money I’ll never—”
“Listen.” Nico cuts me off, leaning his forearms on the bar to close the gap between us. “Rafe gave you this job as a favor to me, and after last night’s stunt, you’re lucky to still be employed today. I know all you girls think Rafe is this…”
He strums his inked fingers on the bar, summoning the word.
If he says gentleman, I swear I’ll—
“Gentleman.”
Sigh.
“But just because he’s nice and smiles a lot, don’t be fooled. He’s still…” More strumming. “He’s still Raphael Visconti.”
I haven’t been entirely untruthful. For the most part, Ihavegone straight. Lifting Blake’s wallet aside, the only man I’ve played games with since returning to the Coast has been Raphael. Hell, every interaction we have is a game. Every time he’s near me, I feel like I’m standing beside a roulette wheel, eyes closed, about to bet my entire soul on black.
My eyes dart toward the door of the casino, like they have done every two minutes for the past hour. I woke up this afternoon in a state of delirium, high off having Raphael’s hands in my panties and his damning confession in my ear.
Fuck Martin O’Hare and his disgusting brother; Raphael admitting he’s superstitious has been all I can think about. And not only is he superstitious, he thinks I’m bad luck. Me. The girl with the necklace and a history of making it out of sure-fire deaths alive.
And fuck, if I’m not going to use that to my advantage in all games going forward.
Well, that wasmy plan, until Raphael strolled through the casino door, took one look at my shit-eating grin, and ordered a vodka. Now, I’m not feeling so smug.
A slimy drawl pulls my attention away from liquor-fueled kisses and million-dollar bets. “If Rafe fires you, you can always come and work for me, baby.”
Benny. He slides up to Nico’s side and delivers his sleazy line to my chest.
I slam down the cocktail shaker and glare at him. “What tit are you offering a job to, Benny? Left or right?”
His gaze skims up to mine, mischief accompanied by a lop-sided grin. “Two for the price of one. What’d you say?”
Nico mutters something under his breath and turns to his cellphone.
“You know every drink you order off me tonight will be spat in, don’t you?” I snap back.
He licks his lips. Winks. “Adds to the flavor.”
Jesus.
