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"Something like that," he said smugly, taking a deep swig of water to cool off. He felt invigorated, powerful even.
His life might have been a solid-gold trash fire, but he felt like he'd finally gained control over some small part of his life.
When Marco walked past the bar a few minutes later, there was a promise in his fiery gaze that made Joey's knees weak.
Next time, Marco mouthed, a thunderstorm in his expression. Then he was gone, off to his next job.
Next time, huh? Joey fought a tremble of anticipation.
He returned to his work with renewed determination, charming every patron that looked his way. The money flowed in like water, and for the first time in ages, Joey didn't feel utterly, entirely, desperately helpless.
"Look at you, working it like a pro," Gina whispered admiringly when they crossed paths again later in the night. "You've got your guys eating out of the palm of your hand!"
"Feels pretty damn good," Joey admitted, grinning. And he knew that, no matter what happened from here on out, he would always have the memory of Marco's stunned expression, the taste of his defeat, to remind him of his own inner strength.
That was, untilnext time…
Whatever that was going to be.
Chapter fourteen
Marco
Sinsationwasn'ttheonlybusiness on Marco's docket.
Marco sauntered into the dimly lit restaurant, his colleague, Toro, close behind. The scent of cigar smoke and fear filled the air, a familiar yet intoxicating mix for Marco.
His dark eyes swept over the room as he took in every detail. The restaurants' regulars looked at him in defiance, but soon dropped their eyes.
Damn straight,he thought. "Alright, let's get down to business," Marco said. "Where are this month's profits?"
"Right here, Mr. King," replied the owner, a short, balding man named Sal. With trembling hands, he handed over a folder of paperwork to Marco, and a briefcase of money to Toro.
"Call me Marco, Sal," he drawled, as he flipped through the pages. He tried to focus on the numbers and figures.
Any other day, this would have been a cakewalk. But after last night…
"Looking good so far," Marco gruffed out after an intense minute of silence, trying to keep his focus on the papers before him. Next to him, he saw Toro pause in the middle of counting the bills, but said nothing.
"Thank you, Mr—I mean, Marco," stammered Sal, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "We're doing our best to keep up with the Toscanos' expectations."
That's what they all said. But Marco's attention shifted to Toro, his instincts tingling.
Toro's eyes narrowed, scanning the bills with a predator's gaze. Then, with a low huff of laughter, Toro's face contorted into a twisted grin. He held up a stack of money. "Seems to me like you've been doing a little arts and crafts."
Toro's tone was as dangerous as a loaded gun, and the blood drained from Sal's face. "No!" His trembling became more pronounced, his eyes darting between Marco and Toro, his face a mask of panic. "I-I swear, Mr. King, it's all on the up and up…"
Marco took a bill from Toro. He held it up, and noticed what Toro had—a faint smear of ink, a sign that it was a little too hot from the presses.
Around them, Sal's men got to their feet. Marco noted them, even as he kept his eyes on Sal: five men, not including their boss, who currently looked like he was on the verge of pissing himself.
Just five, huh?
You needed more than that to cross the Toscanos.
"Sal, I thought we had a good thing going. Toro, I'm going to make sure our friend Sal here understands the gravity of his mistake. Could you make sure we're not interrupted?"
Toro's grin widened, revealing a set of wolf-white teeth that matched his predatory nature.
