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6
Salvatore
My father arches a brow at me when I get into the car. I ignore him. I’m a grown man and don’t have to answer to him. As far as he knows, I went to the fucking bathroom to take a piss.
“That was interesting,” he says.
“What did you expect? Riccardo would outright tell you he’s gunning for you? Not his style.”
“Son, I am not the least bit concerned about Riccardo Genovese and whatever plan he’s concocting. I found Milanamolto interessante.”
I’m not surprised. My father finds any woman with a nice rack and heart-shaped ass interesting.
“Apparently, she doesn’t know her place.”
Truth is, I found her interesting as well, but I despise that she caught my father’s attention. I don’t want him anywhere near her. I’ve witnessed the way he treats women. Fuck, the way he treats everyone. He’s the king, and we’re all supposed to be his loyal subjects. I don’t want that for Millie.
“I want to put her in charge of overseeing the menu. I know a good idea when I hear one.”
I snort out a laugh. “Is that so? I recall suggesting that very thing. What was your response then? ‘Men aren’t concerned with eating. They just want to win money.’ Fuck, even Riccardo made the same suggestion.”
“Invidiais not an attribute a Moretti man should have.”
“Let me be clear. I am not envious. I’m underappreciated.”
He laughs, fucking laughs. “And I was beginning to believe you weren’t a pussy. Such a shame.”
I clench my jaw in frustration, especially when he ends the conversation to answer the phone. It’s always the same old thing with him. Why am I even surprised? Nothing I do is good enough. Never has been.
“We have a problem,” he says, hanging up his phone. “Take us to the casino.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where men think I won’t slice their fucking balls off.”
It always comes down to money and greed. Men want more than they have. In the betting world, they have the confidence they’ll win. Even when they don’t have the money to back up their bet. Never fails. My father is ruthless when it comes to money, especially when someone is trying to shit him out of it.
We arrive at the casino, a 5,600-square-foot business located beneath La Familia Grande, one of the many hotels we own. It’s the perfect cover for the casino, lots of people always coming and going?also the perfect way to launder money.
“Sir, it’s Malcolm again,” Duncan, the security for the evening, explains as we walk. “He came in claiming to pay his debt from last week. Wanted to place another bet.”
“Did he pay?”
“No, sir. He asked for an extension on his credit line, making assurances his father was going to settle the debt. Now, he’s down over a hundred grand.”
“Where is he?”
“Still at the table. I didn’t want to cause a scene.”
My father stops walking and looks at Duncan. “When it comes to money, my fucking money, don’t ever be afraid to cause a scene.”
“Yes, sir.”
Duncan leads us to the roulette table where Malcolm is seated. The glass in front of him is empty, his eyes bloodshot and hair a mess from where he’s been running his fingers through it in frustration.
“Come with me,” my father says firmly.
Malcolm looks between the three of us and reluctantly rises. “My father is going to settle the debt. He’s on his way here now.”
