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A pulse flickers in my jaw. “Deal.”
Like everyone else in the family, Nico knows I don’t, can’t, turn down the opportunity to play a game or make a bet, even if it’s guaranteed I’ll lose. My self-control is iron-clad and galvanized, and yet, the click-clack of a dice or the thawp of a roulette wheel spinning is like crack to me.
My whole life is a game, but it’s a predictable one. I own half the hotels and casinos and collect protection from ones I don’t. In a world of fixed odds, all of them stacked in my favor, my only excitement is getting to shake the dice and throw them into the unknown.
Nico slams the shot and pours out another. “You’ve fucked up.”
“Yeah?”
He flashes me a shy grin. “Yeah. I slept with her at the bachelor party, so I already know she’s mafia meat.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You and Benny are one Saturday night away from incest.”
He laughs quietly, then picks up a stack of shot glasses with one hand and tucks the tequila bottle under his arm. His jovial whistle slips through the air like oil in water. In my peripheral, I see Griffin, the head of my personal security team, stop pacing the shadows to glare at him as he passes.
“Fucking idiot,” he grunts, before returning to his hushed phone call.
I don’t agree; in fact, Nico is one of the few cousins I wouldn’t deem an idiot. He’s just grown up with warfare hanging over his head like a constant storm cloud. He’s not an idiot, he’s just immune to things like explosions and bloodshed.
Left alone again, I eye the tequila shot Nico poured out for me. As a rule of thumb, I don’t drink any liquor that’s clear unless I’m trying to secure business with the Mexicans or Russians, but fuck it.
I slam it and wait.
To my mild disappointment, it burns down my throat and trickles into my chest, yet does nothing to extinguish the flame of unease that flickers there.
Dragging a knuckle over my jaw, I turn and rest my forearms against the bar. Mainly so Angelo doesn’t catch the crack in my indifferent facade. Out of all the Viscontis, I’m the calm one. The voice of reason in a cesspit of ego and testosterone. The one that puts out their fires with an ice-cold bucket of reality and a plan. But I must admit, I’m struggling to adhere to that reputation tonight.
The Devil’s Dip port is up in flames, and there’s a niggling feeling in my chest that somehow, I’m responsible.
It was just a coincidence.
With a shake of my head, I roll the whiskey glass down my palm and press it against the inside of my wrist in an attempt to cool my blood. Of course, my brain knows it was a mere coincidence. Dante’s been laying low for over a month now; it was about time he pulled his finger out of his ass and retaliated. And what better day to do it than Angelo’s wedding?
The red-haired girl had nothing to do with it.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, suddenly aware of all the tension knotting in my back.
She’s not my doom card.
Behind me, Angelo clears his throat. “Men, Cas’s office in one minute.”
I roll my neck on my shoulders. Smooth the band of my bow tie and realign my composure before turning around. Made men stride through a door at the back of the club in a line of tuxedos and crystal tumblers. Angelo fists Rory’s hair and plants an angry kiss on her neck, before she joins her bridal party in the corner. A few of Gabe’s men form a protective barrier around them, while Angelo turns his attention to me.
He stares at me, silent but expectant. Cocking a lazy smile, I hold my hand horizontally in the space between us. Both our eyes fall to it, and as usual, it’s deathly still.
My brothers and I have played this game since we were kids. From breaking our mama’s fine china by rollerblading in the kitchen, to realizing there’s a security camera outside the house of our latest Sinners Anonymous victim—any time danger touched us, they’d turn to me to gauge the severity of it. I guess it’s because I see things through a logical lens, or because I don’t make any rash decisions.
The rule is and always has been that if my hand doesn’t shake, their hands shouldn’t either.
He swallows. Nods. But when his eyes travel back up to mine and narrow, I can tell he’s not convinced.
“It’s Dante, for fuck’s sake.”
My protest doesn’t lighten the darkness on his face, and I look back down at my hand to double-check there’s not even the slightest tremor in it. I can’t believe I’m doubting myself, but I have to admit, the red-head has thrown me out of whack.
When she came into the bar last night, I heard her before I saw her.
Those muddy boots stomped down the stairs and up my spine, forcing me to read the first line of an email twice. That alone got my back up, and all before I’d even seen her.
