Dead Man's Hand (Vegas Underground 7)

“You look like the same stronzo,” I say to Paolo. As the brother just two years older than me, he thinks his job in life is to bust my balls.

What the fuck does he mean I look different?

He’s staring at me avidly, like my nose is in a new place or something.

“What?”

“I don’t know. You look better. More like yourself.”

It’s Marissa.

I want to deny the whisper of truth. I already know I’m attaching way too much importance to this girl.

She happens to be the unfortunate female stuck in a loop of my nightmares. And she also happens to owe me thirty grand, which she’ll be paying back in a way that I’m far too excited about. But whatever. As long as I don’t assign meaning to it, I should be happy anything has me excited.

So, I guess Paolo’s right. I’m more myself.

Except I don’t know who the fuck myself even is anymore.

I keep that existential malaise to myself, though. The last thing I need is Junior or Paolo messing with my life to try to fix me.

Italian families. They’re way too fucking interfering.

I head over to my ma’s piano and sit down and play Get Lucky by Daft Punk. I know Jasper will recognize it. He runs over and stands beside me to listen.

“Play it again, Uncle Gio,” he demands when I finish.

“No, it’s time to eat,” Desiree tells him. She raises her voice to call all of us. “Dinner’s ready.”

I watch her bustle around, pouring water into everyone’s glasses. She has this capable way of serving without being the slightest bit servile. A spitfire Puerto Rican American, she was our mother’s in-home nurse before Junior kidnapped her to nurse me back to the land of the living. She was the only nurse my mother didn’t steamroll and she’s easily won all our respect and love.

Junior carries in a casserole dish of stuffed baked ziti and sets it on the table before sitting in our father’s chair at the head.

Desiree takes baby Santo from my mother’s arms and sits him on her lap, where he starts grabbing things from the table. She scoots breakables away and hands him a spoon. “Gio, you look good.”

“See?” Paolo says. “That’s what I told him. What happened? You get laid?”

“Paolo,” Ma scolds. “There are children present and you’re sitting at my dinner table.”

“Sorry, Ma.”

But now the whole table’s looking at me. “I’m feeling good, that’s all.” I wave off the attention. Our mother never knew about me getting shot, so I’m purposely vague.

“Good. That’s good.” A trace of worry is in Junior’s gaze. There’s a lot of shit I could blame him for, but not taking me to the hospital when I got shot isn’t one of them. He doesn’t need that on his conscience. I know he did what he had to do to protect all of us. And I lived.

If anything, I resent that he’s moved on. He shut down the Family business to settle down with Desiree. And I’m left holding my dick.

And I don’t know what the fuck Paolo’s doing. I think he’s still running a side business on his own, which none of us ever mention.

But I guess we’re free to do that. We’re grown men with millions of dollars each, thanks to the Family’s investment in Nico’s casino.

“Gio and Paolo, when are you going to give me grandchildren?” Ma starts in.

“Don’t count on it,” Paolo says. “Not from me, anyway. But who knows, maybe Gio will give up his playboy ways now.”

“What do you mean now?” Ma says.

Junior shoots Paolo a warning look.

Paolo plays it off with a shrug. “Now that four of our siblings have taken the fall.”

“The fall? Real nice, Paolo,” Desiree shoots from across the table with an eye roll. She hands him the basket of bread, though, which he was trying to reach.

I don’t desire a wife and kids.

At least I never did. Even watching my brothers and sister find love didn’t change that for me. Although it did add to my inner crisis. Like, why the fuck don’t I want that?

Shouldn’t I want it?

The only thing is, I’m suddenly picturing Marissa here at this table. She’d be serving her gourmet food, giving Paolo shit right along with Desiree.

What would she look like pregnant?

I shake my head, blinking. Trying to push away the goddess-gorgeous image I have of her in a flowing white gown, hair tumbling over her shoulder and a swollen belly.

I must be fucking nuts.

She’s not the missing meaning in my life. I need to stop assigning that kind of bullshit importance to her.

She’s a barely legal chef who owes me money.

End of story.

Marissa

I take Lilah’s arm and tug her into the walk-in with me. “Arnie grabbed my boob and I didn’t have the damn fork on me. Actually, he honked it, like a sixth grader who wants to get kneed in the balls.”