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Chapter 2
Domencio
Once my house was cleared, Batista left to get ready to go to the high stakes game at the casino tonight. I amped up my security around the estate just in case Felicity tried to come back. One thing about me, once I’m done, I’m done.
After showering and getting dressed in a black suit with a white dress shirt that’s unbuttoned down to the third button and putting on my dress shoes, I’m ready to go. My jewelry is on point, I smelled good, and I was ready to replace Felicity with my next bed warmer. I’m sure by now she has cried to her father about what happened, but do you think I give a fuck?Hell no.Police Chief Andrews knows the amount of money he’ll be missing out on if he listens to the adolescent cries of his daughter. Batista told me early on that it was a bad idea to get involved with her, but I ignored his warnings. I can honestly admit I saw the pretty face and ran with that, but now I truly regret that.
“Jefferson, I’ll be getting in late tonight, so make sure you let security know,” I informed him, walking out the front door.
“Will do, sir,” he responds before going over to the black four door Bugatti.
As I get in, I tell Jefferson, “Thank you and will you phone Batista and let him know I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything else?” Jefferson returned.
“Not that I can think of,” I replied.
Jefferson smiled. “Very well sir.” He closed the door, and the driver pulled off.
Jefferson used to work under my daddy in New Orleans. I’ve basically been around him almost all my life. I look at Jefferson as not only an employee, but as a confidant. While my daddy handled shit in the streets in New Orleans, it was Jefferson who was there to talk to me about navigating through the bullshit as an adolescent. When I decided to move to Shreveport, I gave him the option to come with me or stay.
I think my daddy felt I was stealing Jefferson away from him when Jefferson decided to come with me. I honestly didn’t think he would come, but when he agreed, I was elated. Jefferson wasn’t married, had no children, and could go wherever he pleased, fortunately it was with me.
Daddy eventually let his feelings go, acknowledging if I were going to relocate to another city, Jefferson would be the best person to have in my corner because he was used to our line of business.
Less than ten minutes later, we’re pulling into Batista’s circular driveway. As the driver puts the car in park, Batista emerges from the front door. He has words with his butler before walking to the car. When he reaches it, the driver opens the back passenger door for him.
“I’m telling you right now, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to sit back and watch the high roller game without joining in. There is going to be a huge take on the table, and it would be a travesty if I didn’t partake in it,” he says, getting comfortable in his seat.
Tossing my head back laughing, I state, “Batista, you of all people know we can’t be a part of tonight. This is our game and if you or I were to play and win, then the other players would think it was rigged. Our only job tonight is to sit back and collect the money that these saps have paid to be in the game. At the end of the night, we will still walk away with a profit.”
“It would be a lot more if we had a hand in the game,” he murmurs, smoothing out his slacks.
Shuffling in my seat to face him, I growl, “Batista, even if you were in the game, you have enough money to secure you and your future family for generations. Don’t let dollar signs cloud your perception of what we are here to do. We left New Orleans because the officials were breathing down our necks, now we’re far away from that bullshit. If you win the pot tonight, they will be suspicious.”
Batista ponders over my words before saying, “You’re right, Domencio. I was only looking at the glory of knocking one of those overzealous assholes at the table down. It’s not about winning to me, but the rush I get from seeing the look of defeat on their faces.”
We laugh as the driver continues to drive downtown.
When we arrive at Blue Bayou, the valets open our doors. I get out, then look over the roof of the car and tell him with a smirk, “Stay alert, anything can happen.”
“You already know,” Batista chuckles as we stroll to the entry doors.
Once we’re inside, we head towards the private elevator that will take us up to the high rollers floor. To play Poker on this level you have to pay a ten thousand dollar buy-in that’s not refundable to secure your spot. I started doing this because in the beginning, there were too many no-shows. Players begged for a seat at the next game, and we would take their word that they would be there, but then they wouldn’t show. So, to avoid that bullshit, you had to pay before you played.
When the doors open, we step inside the suite. Three of the players have already arrived. Smitty Maldau, a loudmouth Cajun from the swamps in Houma, a small city an hour away from New Orleans. He comes from old money and doesn’t mind letting others know. He’s also one of my biggest clients in the arms trade. Next is Pierre LeFleur, one of the local politicians in the city who likes to keep his interactions with us on the low. Then there’s Prosper Maltese who owns one of the largest seafood distribution companies in Louisiana. He resides in New Orleans but is here on business and decided to wind down with a hand of Poker. Pierre nor Prosper know anything about me and Smitty’s illegal transactions, and I’d like to keep it that way.
The three acknowledged us as Batista and I went to the only empty table that gives us a full view of the game.
