Dead Man's Hand (Vegas Underground 7)

“True.”

I watch her plate the food.

For one.

One plate.

Mine.

“You’re staying to eat.” I don’t make it a question.

To my surprise, tough girl blushes.

Huh.

“The chef doesn’t eat with the patrons.”

“You’re off shift. Make a second plate.”

She doesn’t move. I don’t sense outright resistance. More indecision. “This isn’t a date,” she clarifies.

“This is you paying off your debt. I want to eat your food, and I want you sitting with me when I try it. Is that too much to ask?”

Cazzo. I’m throwing my weight around like an asshole, but she’s not cowed. She twists her lips up in this cute, contemplative way and cocks her head to the side.

“I’ll eat with you,” she says slowly, “if you’ll play the piano for me when we’re done.”

I manage to get my eyebrows back down in a couple seconds and cock a grin. “What? Don’t believe I can play?”

She’s already moving, plating the second dinner and grabbing utensils from my drawers. I fucking love the way she makes herself at home and doesn’t ask where things are or for help.

“I believe it. I just want to hear it.” She carries both plates with utensils rolled up in cloth napkins that she brought over to my table by the window. She sets the table and waits while I pour myself a second glass of wine and bring both glasses to the table to sit. “This is an incredible view.”

It is. At night, the lights of the city, as well as the yachts docked along the shore, glitter and reflect off the inky water of Lake Michigan. When I bought this place, I pictured myself showing off the view to women I brought home for one-night stands.

And before the shooting, I did quite a bit of that.

Now, though, I’m not even sure I care about that view. Was it just a symbol of my wealth and power? Or do I actually enjoy looking out at the water?

Fuck if I know.

And that’s the problem.

I think I’ve been living my entire life doing what I thought was fulfilling. Getting my dick wet. Getting rich. Seizing power and throwing my weight around. Violence on occasion to make me feel like a real man.

But none of those things have been enough since I got shot. I don’t crave more money. More pussy. Even if Junior hadn’t settled the score, I don’t think I’d burn for revenge for getting shot. I just can’t seem to give three fucks about anything these days.

This little girl in front of me, though. She’s something different. And it seems I’m always hard for her.

I lift my wine glass in the air and wait for Marissa’s hesitation to pass for her to pick up hers and clink them together. “To our new arrangement.”

I see a flicker of anxiety on her face before she nods firmly. “To our new arrangement.” We both drink and I pick up my fork, eager to taste her food.

It’s incredible—she used simple ingredients but the tastes explode in my mouth. “Madonna, this is good. Che meraviglia. It’s wonderful.”

I love the flushed pleasure on her face. “I made you speak Italian.”

I chuckle. “Angel, I’m sure there are quite a few things you could do that would make me break into the old language.”

She does that flirty gaze under her lashes again with a smirk.

“Parli Italiano?”

She shakes her head with regret. “No. I never learned to speak it. I can understand it okay just from hearing my grandparents talk, but that’s it. I want to go there someday. Did you know if you’re Italian American you can get Italian citizenship? And college is free to citizens there, so I could go to college in Italy.”

“Is that what you want?”

She shrugs and I decide it’s not.

“I’ll take you there, angel. Show you the Old Country.”

A little blush creeps up her neck, and I decide she likes that idea but won’t let herself accept it. Just like she couldn’t just ask for help with her cousin. She takes a bite of her fish and even though she doesn’t make a show of it, I can tell she’s satisfied with her creation.

“It’s good, no?”

“It turned out.”

“Don’t be modest. It’s delicious.” I have to slow my shoveling down so I don’t clear my plate in minutes and make her work seem insignificant.

She’s a dainty eater, her soft lips closing delicately around the fork tines in a way that comes off way too sexual for my cock’s comfort.

“So how long have you played piano?”

Her interest in the piano is funny to me. It’s not a talent I share with anyone but family, so I’m not used to having anyone talk to me about it. “Since I was six. It was Christmas-time and I was at a mall with my ma. Some old black guy with a Santa hat was playing ragtime piano, and I stopped to watch. I’d never heard the sound before, but more than that, I was fascinated with how fast his fingers moved. When he was finished with the song, he invited me over and taught me how to play Jingle Bells.”