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Bennystandsonthe boat tender, arms outstretched and his legs shoulder-width apart. An unlit cigarette dangles from his lips, and his glare is almost hot enough to warm up this icy December day at sea.
“Cazzo,” he growls as Griffin slides a beefy hand up the inside seam of his slacks. “If you wanted to touch my dick, all you had to do was ask.”
“I’d have to find it first,” Griff grumbles back.
Amusement leaves my lips in a puff of condensation, which only makes Benny’s scowl darker. “You don’t trust me, cugino?”
“Standard protocol, Ben.”
“You want me to squat and cough next?”
I smirk. “Depends. Got anything up there I should know about?”
Griffin gives me a curt nod and steps back, clearing my cousin to embark the yacht. I yank him up onto the swim platform with one hand and clap him on the back with the other.
He smooths down the front of his shirt and cracks his neck. “I haven’t seen you on dry land for a while. You living onboard?”
I nod. “It’s a bit more luxurious than any hotel in Dip, don’t you think? Besides, it means you can’t turn up unannounced as usual, with your hookers and your whiskey.”
He laughs. “Unfortunately, the only thing I’ve brought today is bad news.”
My heart sinks three inches in my chest. Of course it is. Seems like all news is bad news these days. Every time I pick up the phone or open an email, another brick of my empire crumbles away.
Benny saunters into the lounge, swipes a bottle of Smuggler’s Club from behind the bar, and disappears down the spiral staircase. I find him in the crew mess, poking his bandaged hand around the pizza boxes and the sandwiches laid out for my men.
“You can’t tell me you have bad news and then proceed to stuff your face,” I say dryly, beckoning him over to the corner booth.
Gnawing on a slice of pizza, he strolls over and drops a thin manila folder in front of me. I flick it open, then run a wary eye down the list of familiar names. Half of them are scratched out with a sharp stroke of a fountain pen.
“What’s this?”
“This V.I.P guest list for Thursday’s poker night.” He kicks out a chair and slumps down on it. “Ten of our biggest hitters have pulled out.”
Benny, Tor, and I have held a joint poker night in Hollow on the last Thursday of every month for years. It’s a partnership that’s always worked seamlessly. Tor brings the big-hitters from Cove, I bring them from Vegas, and Benny brings anything that billionaires with too much money and not enough morals could possibly want. Since Tor has disappeared off the face of the planet—I still haven’t heard from that fucker—Benny and I have decided to go it alone for the first time in forever.
My back molars grind together, but I keep my expression indifferent. “Let me guess; they’ve all caught that nasty flu going around.”
He smirks at my sarcasm. “You’re not too far off, cugino. Dante always has been a fucking germ.”
My gaze snaps up from the list to meet his. “What’s he done?”
“Apparently, he’s holding a poker night to rival ours in Cove. Same night, same time. Called up all of our big-hitters and offered them half-price buy-ins and double the winnings.” He leans back on his chair, watching for my reaction over his pizza slice.
I give a small shake of my head. “Not a single one of these men would take him up on that.”
I can say that with full confidence. Our clients don’t come to our poker nights for cheap buy-ins, they come because I’m there. These men fly from all around the world to have the chance to sit at the same velvet table as me. I spend most of the night signing chips rather than playing them.
“You’ve got that right. Obviously, none of them are going to Dante’s poker night, either. But him calling everyone up and begging them to change their plans makes it obvious there’s a Visconti family rift. Seems like everyone wants to stay away in case they get caught up in the middle of it.”
I strum a finger against the cleft of my chin, glaring at the strip lights above Benny’s head. “Where’s he holding it?”
“Portafortuna. It’s his new joint up on the north headland.”
“We could always blow it up.”
It’s little more than a musing, out of my mouth before I can put weight to it.
Benny lets out a low whistle. “Dio mio. Who am I talking to, Rafe or Gabe? Hell, I’m surprised you haven’t strolled over to Cove and forced both Vicious and Dante to sign a peace treaty, just to smooth things over.”
