Dead Man's Hand (Vegas Underground 7)

“Fine dining. Like Michelangelo's.”

He loads the handcart in the trunk, then holds the door open for me. “And you love everything else about Michelangelo's?” he asks when he gets in. “Like you’d rather that were your full-time job?”

I snort. “It is my full-time job. Milano’s is my home life. But yeah. Honestly? Sometimes I wish the shooting had...” I stop because it’s too wicked to even say out loud.

“Closed the place down?” he finishes.

I exhale and drop my forehead into my fingers. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m a terrible granddaughter.”

Gio’s quiet for a long time, letting me stew in my shame. “I know a shit-ton about being conscripted into a family business,” he says gruffly.

I jerk my head up and look over. It never occurred to me that Gio might not enjoy his business. All I see is the power and money. Maybe he has no taste for the violence. Well, crap—he got shot in the gut for it, didn’t he? Almost died?

“I’ll bet you do,” I say softly. I clear my throat. “Anyway, yeah, I’d rather just work at Michelangelo's. Except without my direct boss, because he’s disgusting.”

I sense Gio’s body come alert, even though I didn’t say it. I didn’t say anything, yet he somehow seems to know. “Disgusting how?” he asks sharply.

Tingles run over my skin. I can’t decide if I’m excited or nervous about the threat I hear in his voice. The fact that I know his protectiveness is still aimed firmly at me.

No, this is a problem.

This man is dangerous. Like breaking-legs dangerous. Shooting kneecaps. Busting ribs. I may hate working with Arnie, but I’m not going to send a mafia hitman after him.

Well, I don’t know if Gio’s a hitman, but he easily could be.

“Never mind.” My voice sounds scratchy.

Gio cuts his gaze from the road to me. “What’s his name?” His tone is deadly.

I shake my head. “I’m not telling.”

Gio’s lip curls and he looks downright scary. “The fuck, Marissa?”

My heart’s beating fast, like I’m the one in danger and not my asshole handsy boss. “I don’t trust you, Gio.”

He flinches and the color drains from his face, along with the anger. “Huh,” is all he says.

I want to say more—to say it better so he’s not offended, although this whole thing is crazy. Since when do I need to be so worried about hurting the feelings of one of the heads of the most powerful crime family in the country?

I don’t. I shouldn’t. This man pretty much owns me, even though he hasn’t flexed that power much, he could. I shouldn’t have to worry about him getting butthurt when I don’t want him to throw someone in Lake Michigan with cement shoes for me.

Gio

My fist smashes through the drywall of my bedroom too easily. I squeeze my fingers into a fist, relishing the pain. At least I’m feeling something. First time in months. Although the self-disgust doesn’t exactly answer my question for why the fuck I’m living.

Cristo.

She doesn’t trust me. I guess she fucking shouldn’t. Because I want to kill that stronzo boss of hers. The one who’s done something disgusting to her.

And I know it’s something I’d wanna kill him for, because she wouldn’t tell me.

And fuck if my need to fix this for her, to exact a little justice, isn’t all-consuming. I smash my fist through the wall again. Two more times.

My knuckles bleed a little.

So she doesn’t want me to hurt the guy. That makes me a bad person, I guess.

Cazzo!

In my book, you don’t stand around and let a woman get molested by her boss and do nothing. And it’s happening to fucking Marissa, which makes me violent just thinking about it.

So what the fuck do I do?

What would a good guy do? A real hero?

A fucking hero would kill the stronzo.

Wouldn’t he?

I don’t know. Maybe my world view is just skewed so far toward violence I don’t know how to function in this world. Maybe that’s why I feel like a whale out of water since my shooting.

And then it occurs to me who does know how to function better within the lines of the law and societal norm.

I glance at the clock. It’s 3:00 a.m. Only 1:00 a.m. in Vegas. I pull out my phone and call my younger brother Nico. He owns a casino so he’s up late, even with—maybe especially with—a baby at home.

We’re not close. Not really. The five Tacone brothers fell into two groupings. The oldest three—me, Junior and Paolo, were one and the younger two—Nico and Stefano were another. We older brothers were expected to take over the family business. Our dad rode us hard and trained us to fit into his mold. Nico and Stefano had a little more leeway.

Which is maybe how they thought out of the box to expand business way beyond what the rest of us ever believed possible. And made it legal in the process.