Fallen Empire (Dirty Empire)

1

Gabriel

“Well, would you look at that. I’ll bet you thought you had that hand in the bag.” Caleb grins as he lays down a straight flush beside Cohen’s four aces. “Oh wait, you bet. A lot.”

With a curse under his breath, the owner of the Mage Hotel and Casino sinks into his chair and scowls as his opponent rakes in the considerable pot of chips. Has he figured out yet that my brother’s been stringing him along, like a lion toying with its meal before going in for the kill? He allowed the little bald man to win five hands out of six, enough to nurture the delusion that Caleb is all talk and no skill. The growing number of chips tossed onto the table with each round is proof of it.

But Caleb isn’t known for having patience and is tiring of this ruse. He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. “Come on, Gabe. You ready to jump in and lose to me too?”

“Not this round.” I reject his taunt with an unbothered drawl. I’ve never been able to play poker with him. He’s an arrogant prick on a regular day, but put him in a Vegas high-roller room? My fist is itching to connect with his jaw and my money’s not even in play.

Besides, my head’s not on the game. It’s barely processing the swanky room or the armed security detail loitering around us. It’s still in the hotel lobby, on the phone, listening to our private eye Stanley inform me that it wasn’t our dear uncle Peter who rigged our private jet to explode two nights ago. It wasn’t even our family nemesis, the now-deceased Camillo Perri, or his two equally deceased sons.

Our father’s henchman was the one lurking within the range of a security camera the night we nearly died, and Bane only takes orders from one man.

Our father.

I understand what Stanley was trying to tell me over that phone call, but I’m still struggling to process it. No one has ever accused Vlad Easton of being loving, but to sic his homicidal dog on us like that?

The air in the room is tense as the dealer distributes fresh hands.

“So, when are we gonna start playing like real men?” Caleb rearranges his cards with the stony expression he’s mastered. For all the swagger he throws around, not many can outmatch his poker face.

“Real men play with deep pockets. What do you have in your pockets that I might want, Mr. Easton?” Cohen peers over his hand with a glint in his eye that makes me wonder if maybe he’s been playing us all along, too. At least he spent five seconds researching his opponent before he sat down in that chair, long enough to know who Mr. Green really is. But we’ve done plenty of digging on Bruce Cohen and we know he’s a sneeze away from losing his hold of this hotel thanks to his penchant for prostitutes and blow, and making terrible decisions in this very room.

Does it bother Cohen that he’s sitting across from the son of a notorious crime boss? Is he worried what will happen if he upsets us? Nah…. This little man may be a degenerate gambler on the verge of economic collapse, but he’s dealt with his share of shady fucks. He knows exactly who we are, and I suspect he can guess how much we’re worth.

A ballpark guess, anyway. Nobody has an actual idea except our accountant, who has made sure to bury that number where no one will ever find it.

“Where to begin…,” Caleb drawls, sucking back a mouthful of vodka. I fight the urge to cringe. It’s ten a.m. “How about a lucrative nightclub in Phoenix—”

“That’s not on the table.” I glare at my older brother. If this is his go-big-or-go-home strategy, I’d rather go home. The club is half mine and Caleb can only work so much magic if he gets a shitty hand.

“Ye of little faith.” Caleb smirks. “Fine, little brother. What do you suggest I risk losing in this respectable game to this respectable gentleman?”

“A few apartment buildings,” I say without hesitation. Our father’s properties, safely tucked away under dear Aunt Vespa’s name—Dad and Uncle Pete’s older sister who suffers from dementia and is riding out her days in a deluxe old-age home, convinced it’s still 1954. Caleb has power of attorney and deals with the property manager.

Caleb’s blue eyes flash to mine, and a curious frown zags across his forehead. I know what he’s thinking: that Dad would kill us if Caleb lost those assets in a game of poker. But considering he’s already given the order to kill us, I guess that’s a moot point. Not that Caleb knows about that small detail yet.

But Vlad Easton didn’t actually intend to kill his sons, did he? If that was the goal, Bane would have waited until we were snug in our seats before he flipped the trigger. No…. That display had to be a warning: be good little sons, fall in line for big bad Vlad. Now that he’s behind bars until the end of his days, he’s hellbent on seeing his delightful legacy—a drug empire—continue on in this world, with us taking it over. We’ve avoided and sidestepped the dirtiest parts of the family business up until now. He thinks he can scare us into compliance.