Page 5 of Filthy Little Games
Dammit. I should’ve known there would be a catch.
“Tonight? It has to be tonight?”
“What time do you get off work?”
“I should be able to lock up and leave a little after ten.”
“Perfect.” Izaiah eyes the frays on my short denim shorts and then my snug white tee for so long I worry he’s going to add more conditions to this deal. “If you dress up slutty enough, you should be able to skip the line and deliver the message to Jasper before midnight.”
“That doesn’t give me much time to get ready. Where am I even going?”
“To The Vault. It’s a club across the bridge.”
Great. The commute to Manhattan will take half an hour, if not longer on the subway, which will leave me about thirty minutes to shower, do something with my curls, and find a short enough dress to get me into one of the city’s most popular clubs.
“Send me a message when you’ve delivered the warning and when Creed Ferraro shows up, then delete the entire thread. Understood?” He swipes his disgusting thumb over my lips, watching them intently. “Too bad I’m too wasted to claim this mouth tonight.”
“Yeah, too bad,” I mutter, not the last bit disappointed, as I pull back away from his reach.
“Next time.” His words are a promise, not a request.
Quickly changing the subject, I ask, “What if I can’t get into the club before midnight? What if Ferraro doesn’t show up?”
“Then you’ll never see Oriana again,” he warns me before he turns around and staggers out the door, as if he didn’t just threaten to cut my heart out of my chest.
Creed
“I fold,” I say and toss my cards down onto the green felt table. No better way to unwind after a Council meeting than poker night with the guys.
“Oh, fuck off. Why do you always play it safe, man?” Tristan huffs as he rakes his winnings — a pile of red, white, and blue poker chips — to his side of the poker table. “You’ve got more money to waste than the rest of us combined.”
Every Thursday night, I have a standing game of poker in my penthouse with my second in command and younger brother, Carmine; my consigliere or advisor, Lorenzo; and my two younger cousins, Andrea and Tristano. Although, everyone calls those two by their shortened names. Dre moonlights as an ethical corporateattorney and is third in line to my throne. Tristan is one of our family’s main enforcers because he enjoys inflicting pain.
“Maybe I have more money than the rest of you fools because I actually knowwhento fold and not waste it,” I reply while Carmine gathers up the deck of cards to shuffle them.
“Tristan was bluffing that hand,” Dre declares, his perpetual scowl on his face as he takes a puff from his cigar.
“If you thought I was bluffing, then why did you fucking fold?” Tristan asks him.
“Because you act like a little bitch when you lose,” Dre releases a rare chuckle seconds before he ducks to avoid a handful of peanuts in his face from Tristan.
Tristan isn’t wrong about me. I do play it safe. Being cautious every second of every day is how I was raised.
Sometimes there’s a part of me that wants to take a risk, to go all in. To be someone else, someone who isn’t responsible for the lives of hundreds of people. The lives of thousands of people if shit were to go sideways with the other four mafia families.
The stress of maintaining peace keeps me constantly on edge.
“Last hand? I’m ready to call it a night,” I tell the guys, wanting to try to get some shuteye before the sun comes up and I go for my daily run.
“Whatever you want, boss,” Carmine agrees as he deals the cards.
“Before I forget, Emilio Rovina mentioned earlier today that he wants a Ferraro to marry Stella.”
“It’s a no from me, dog.” Carmine shakes his head.
“Why not? She’s hot as hell,” Tristan remarks.
I look to Dre, who lifts a single, non-committal shoulder. Before I can ask him what he’s thinking, Lorenzo’s phone starts ringing.