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Please, please, please…
“Yeah.” The voice is gruff, deeper with age, but recognition sings within me. “It’s me.”
It’shim.
ONE
HIS SECOND PHONE
LINCOLN
Leaning back in my booth, rapping the bottom of my empty shot glass against the tabletop, I watch my second out of the corner of my eye.
It’s the smirk pulling on his too-fucking-pretty face. He’s up to something, and I’m not in the mood to find out what. My single shot of whiskey hasn’t done a damn thing to take the edge off today, and the last thing I need is for any of his bullshit.
After knowing “Rolls” Royce McIntyre for these last ten years, I’ve gotten pretty good at telling when he’s in “underboss” mode, and when he’s pushing his luck and testing me.
In the whole damn world, there are only two people who can get away with that without fear that Devil will retaliate: Royce and—
Gritting my teeth, stretching my arm across the top of the leather seat behind me, I look out into the glitz and grit that highlight every inch of my playground. From the crowded dance floor in the middle, to the private booths just like the one I’m sitting in with Royce, and the wraparound bar doing more business than every other joint in Springfield combined, it’s a monument to everything I’ve accomplished in my thirty-five years—and a reminder of the price I paid to have it.
Even now, all this time later, I can hear her asking mewhy…
I need another shot. Fuck, I needsomething. The bass of the music pumping out of the nearby speakers seems to pulse in time to the throb at the back of my skull, and the button-down shirt I stretched over my chest for my dinner meeting earlier makes me feel like a stuffed sausage.
Knocking the shot glass away from me with my knuckles, I grumble under my breath and yank at the tie. Once I can breathe a little easier, I flick open the first two buttons on my shirt and exhale.
A little better, though I squint through the haze of the club, trying to fight back against my headache.
Usually, I don’t mind the noise. My customers expect it, and the racket adds to the atmosphere. No one comes to the Devil’s Playground for quiet contemplation. My club is about drinking yourself stupid, losing all your money at the tables near the back, and getting laid by one of the club girls upstairs if you can still afford it.
It wasn’t always like this. Before I bought the place out, it used to be called Jimmy’s Bar, but I changed the name shortly after I cobbled together the Sinners Syndicate. We needed a headquarters, a place to conduct business, and an establishment that would get the cash rolling in while we worked on bigger deals and better scores. Nowadays, the Playground is the syndicate’s main form of income—thanks to the gambling and the girls—and I know damn well most of the bit players in Springfield as well as some wannabes only come by because they’re dying to get a glimpse of the Devil himself.
Good luck. On my better nights, I’ll prowl around the floor, letting them wonder what it is about me that made me a legend in town. I’m sure they’ve heard the rumors. Most of the stories about me are true, and the ones that aren’t probably pale in comparison to the shit I’ve done for the syndicate. To see me, to look in Devil’s black eyes, to see his black soul… it’s to fear him, and I deserve it.
Tonight’s not one of my better nights, though. I got word that my rival on the East End, the head of the Libellula crime family, is trying to break out of being the main drug pusher in town and going into my business. Part of the unspoken deal we’ve got between us is that the Sinners Syndicate deals in the three Gs: guns, girls, and gambling. Damien gets drugs and dough, including a pretty fit counterfeiting operation and a money-laundering op that does the Family well.
I don’t mess with his business. Damien’s not supposed to mess with mine. It’s been that way for way too fucking long to change up now, but the whispers my guys have heard around the city tell me that he’s pushing his luck.
Good thing I pushback.
Which is why, when Royce flags down one of the newest waitresses, I know exactly what his bullshit is about tonight—and I’m ready for it.
Objectively, she’s fucking stunning. All the girls at the Playground are. Wallets don’t want to look at a jacked-up face when we’re serving them fantasies unless she’s got a massive set of tits or an ass that would have every joker nearly coming in his pants when she turns around. The tiny skirts and tight tops designed to draw a wandering eye toward their cleavage doesn’t hurt, either.
A waitress can walk out of the Playground with a grand, easy, if she knows how to play the customers. One of the girls upstairs can triple that in half the amount of time if they’re willing to take clients into the private rooms and do whatever the fuck the wallet wants. For a fifteen perfect cut straight to the club, we provide the men, the space, and the protection, and the girls keep customers coming back for more.
This beauty is new meat. She doesn’t have her mark yet, and if she sticks around, I doubt she’s the type who’ll ever go from serving drinks to serving cunt, at least not for any regular customer. That’s fine. We need all types here, even if Idon’t.
She’s a redhead. Her curls are a deep, blood-red, the color so vivid it has to come from a salon, and they barely hit her shoulders. The style’s on purpose, I’d bet. You can’t miss the way the curls bounce or her tits jiggle as she curves her arm around her empty tray, nearly vibrating in place at the edge of our table.
Her eyes are brown. Good. For all his faults, Royce knows better than to shove a pair of green eyes in front of me, and whether the red is a dye-job or not, I’d had a moment’s pause as she stepped beneath the meager light that lets me see out while keeping most of my face in shadow.
She knows who she’s facing. Even if Royce didn’t already prime her—and I’d put a hundred bucks down he did—every one of my employees knows this booth belongs to me.
I’ll give her some credit. Despite her obvious nerves and my shitty mood, her voice is a tremor-free purr as she asks, “Is there something I can get for you two gentlemen?”
Royce slides his gaze right toward me. “I’m good, but maybe Devil—”
