AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There’sanunspokenrule on the Devil’s Coast. It’s etched into every craggy cliff and it pollutes every gloomy shadow.
Don’t fuck with the Viscontis.
It’s common sense, really. Not pissing off the mafia—specifically, the Cosa Nostra—is a law as old as time.
The Viscontis dominate the coastline. In fact, I’d bet my left kidney I could twist my head around three-hundred-and-sixty degrees like a fucking owl, and everything my eyes touched would be Visconti-owned. Every bar, hotel, casino, and restaurant in Cove, Hollow, and Dip, plus all the sorry souls within them.
I of all people should be able to spot a Visconti. It’s not like I stumbled off a Greyhound bus and into parts unknown. I grew up, quite literally, under their roof at the Visconti Grand Hotel and Casino. I learned to crawl among their Brioni loafers underneath the poker tables; started my period in one of their gilded toilet cubicles. Had my first taste of liquor in one of their bars. Hell, one of them even taught me everything I know about advantage gambling and swindling.
Gripping the edge of the bar, I cast a wayward glance to the shadowy figure in the corner. The screen of his cell lights a path along his jawline as he holds it to his ear, and as he turns in a lazy circle, his eyes flash green under a soft spotlight.
Against all odds, I’ve made it to twenty-one and I credit that achievement to both luck and always listening to my instincts, even if they only whisper. Right now, my instincts aren’t whispering; they are screaming at the top of their lungs.
Run.
Dan has moved on to collecting glasses from the tables. I snatch up the bills on the bar and leave one to pay for my drink. Unfortunately, I’ll have to be a lousy tipper tonight, but as a fellow Devil’s Coast resident, I’m sure Dan will understand. Sliding away from the bar, I slip on my coat and head toward the table I kicked my suitcase under.
Slow and steady. Cool and calm. Despite the awful sense of dread pressing down on my shoulders, my movements are relaxed and natural; anything else will draw unwanted attention.
I’m just a girl leaving a bar after choking on an overpriced drink. No big deal.
At the bottom step, I’ve bent down to pick up my suitcase when a voice slices through the air like a hot knife in a block of butter.
“Off so soon?”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I say, as breezily as I can muster. “Got a train to catch.”
“There are no trains on the Devil’s Coast.”
Double shit. “In the morning, I mean. From a different town. Gotta be up early to get there, so I should probably…”
Three slow footsteps, each one closer than the last. The weight behind them makes my excuse trail off into nothingness.
Balling my hands into fists, I glance up the stairs to the small sliver of light at the top of them. If I sacrifice my belongings, will I be able to get out the door before he catches me?
Blood thumps in my ears. Another two footsteps reverberate off the low ceiling, then heat brushes against the nape of my neck. Only a stuttered heartbeat later does the scent of warm whiskey and cool mint drift under my nose.
Christ, he’s close. Goosebumps prickle down the lengths of my arms, and my knees threaten to buckle underneath me.
His thick, tranquil voice floats over the planes of my shoulders.
“Let’s play your game.”
It’s a command masquerading as a suggestion, delivered with the sharp zap of a cattle prod.
It should scare me, but it just pisses me off. I’ve never taken too kindly to being told what to do, especially by a man, even if said man is a Visconti.
Raphael Visconti. Jesus. Despite my annoyance, I can’t believe I had the gall to call Raphael Visconti a mark, even in my own head. He’s the middle one of the Devil’s Dip brothers, and unlike the Cove and the Hollow families, they haven’t had a presence on the Coast for years, not since their parents died when I was around eleven years old. My memories of him in particular are hazy, probably because he’s a lot older than me. He exists in flashes of sharp tailoring and charming smiles. I never got more than a brief glimpse of him before he disappeared behind a sea of suits or a locked door.
Everything I know about Raphael Visconti isn’t from my childhood memories, but from hearsay around blackjack tables in Atlantic City. His name was always uttered in a breathless whisper, often with a rumor attached to it. Invite-only poker games and parties that rivaled Jay Gatsby’s: that kind of thing. It’s hard to know what was true and what wasn’t.
There are only two things I know to be fact.
The first is that Raphael owns the majority of the big-name casinos in Vegas.
The second is that I’d be stupid to swindle a man who owns the majority of the big-name casinos in Vegas.
