“Where’s Nico Tacone?” Donahue demands once he’s sitting and his chips are in front of him.
“Mr. Tacone isn’t here tonight,” I say smoothly, dealing the cards.
Donahue looks pissed. “Why not? He invited me personally. I was told I’d be playing poker with him.”
My eyes narrow slightly. I doubt that’s true. I flick a glance to Leo, at the door. He’s not normal casino security or management. He’s an import from Chicago. Part of the Family, if you know what I mean. I’ve worked at the Bellissimo long enough to know the insiders.
Leo’s upper lip curls like he wants to shove his fist in the guy’s mouth, but he just gives me a small shrug.
“I don’t know who told you that, Mr. Donahue, but it won’t be happening. It’s your bet.”
The guy looks pissed off, but he plays.
“Stefano Tacone’s here,” Mr. Smith grunts after he places his bet.
Donahue turns on him. “Oh yeah? Who’s he? Another Tacone son?”
That should’ve been my clue—he referred to Nico and Stefano as sons, not brothers, but it doesn’t register as any more strange than the rest of the man’s behavior.
“Nico’s brother. I met him when I came in. He’ll be back,” Smith sagely provides.
Donahue sniffs and settles in to play. He’s a shitty player—distracted and impatient. Like Stefano last night, he doesn’t fit into the normal categories of big gambler, yet he’s betting thousands at a time. Is he just here to see Nico? Is that why he was so pissed he wasn’t here? Maybe he has some kind of Family business to take up with him and it has to be in person.
He’s lost three rounds to Smith when Stefano walks in.
“Ah. Here is Mr. Tacone now,” Smith says, pushing his chips across the table toward me. “I believe that must be my cue to take my winnings and go.”
I count him in and return a stack of eight ten-thousand-dollar chips as Stefano saunters in, a cigar box in his hand.
“Sorry I couldn’t be here for the whole game, gentlemen. I hope you enjoyed yourselves.” He offers a cigar to Smith, who takes one, but doesn’t stay to light it.
And that’s when all hell breaks loose.
Donahue knocks his tumbler of whiskey over and it rolls to the floor. He leans over to pick it up, placing the broken glass on the table as he stands. “So you’re one of the Tacone boys?” There’s malice in his face, and I realize his hand has been in his pocket since he stood up. I try to signal Stefano, but he’s already walking toward the man, answering him.
Stefano’s signature charm is present, but he’s guarded. “Yes, I’m Stefano. Do you know my family?”
Donahue pulls his hand from his pocket, holding a tiny pistol. “This is for my brother,” he says, the gun wobbling in his shaking hand.
Two shots fire at the same time.
I throw the table I’m behind forward. A scream leaves my mouth.
Donahue goes down, a bullet between his eyes. Both Stefano and Leo have guns out, arms straight in front of them.
My ears ring with the sound of the shots.
For a moment, no one moves. I’m rooted to the floor, shock plunging through me like a bolt of lightning, rooting my feet to the floor..
Stefano swears in Italian and puts his pistol in a holster under his arm. “How did he get a gun in here? Wasn’t he searched for weapons?”
My body shakes—teeth chatter. I can’t tear my eyes from the dead man. “I-I think he pulled it from his boot, or pant leg,” I provide, remembering he had ducked under the table.
“Who is he?” Leo asks.
“No idea.” Stefano stoops and removes Donahue’s ID and wallet. “Get Sal and Tony up here to help you rid of the body.”
Leo lifts his chin in my direction. He still hasn’t put his gun away. “What about her?”
Ice cold shoots through my veins like daggers. What about me? Oh God, I’m a witness. Is he asking if he should kill me, too?
Stefano examines me with an inscrutable look that seems to last a millennia. I don’t breathe. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Yeah? You sure?”
Stefano doesn’t take his gaze from me. He gives a single nod.
Leo mutters something and tucks what appear to be zip-ties in Stefano’s jacket pocket.
The room swoops and spins.
I am so fucked.
* * *
Stefano
Vaffanculo. Why in the fuck did I let an outsider deal a private game? Bringing Corey Simonson up here was the worst mistake. Now I have a witness to murder on my hands.
Corey’s smart enough to understand the position she’s in. She takes a step backward, her normally shrewd blue eyes wide with shock. “W-wait. Why don’t you just call the cops?” Her voice squeaks, a higher pitch than usual. “It was self-defense. I’m your witness.”
“That’s not how we’re doing this.” I keep my voice smooth, my face expressionless. I haven’t figured out what in the hell I’m going to do with her yet. “Come here.” I beckon to her with what I consider my take charge command.