1. Dante
EIGHT YEARS LATER
R oyally Lucky Casino.
My brother, Christian, and I came up with the name. It should have been Royally Fucked-Up, but that name wouldn’t have attracted the crowds.
While the buzz of the casino was lively out there, here in my office, you couldn’t hear a thing. It was convenient for my business transactions, and for my sanity. I liked my quiet.
“Please, please , it’s a misunderstanding.” The words filling the room were desperate, the actions of the man speaking them even more so.
Locking eyes with my brother, I raised my drink and we clinked our glasses. “To last rites,” I announced.
My casino manager winced at my words. I didn’t need to look his way to know he had turned deathly pale. The fucking guy broke our two main rules. Never lie to us. And never fucking steal from us.
Both Priest—the nickname my brother had earned—and I downed our drinks in a single swig, then turned our attention to the pathetic man sitting in the chair and shaking from fear.
“Dante…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Please.” My name in his mouth pissed me off. It made me want to shove a whole apple down his throat. Begging wouldn’t do him any good. You forgave once, more would get the idea they could do the same shit. Not happening.
I shot a bored glance at my brother. “Do we like begging?”
Priest snickered. “Only from women.”
The corner of my lip twitched. Priest fucking loved to be begged. I’d give my life for the guy, but some of his tastes were a tad bit dark. Some might even say too dark, even for me.
“Right you are, brother,” I agreed. I returned my attention to the fucker just in time to see a bead of sweat roll down his temple.
“I didn’t mean to take it,” he whined, his chin wobbling.
“Oh, my bad. It just dropped into your bank account, then,” I offered calmly. Fucking idiot. “Or better yet, someone set you up?”
He nodded his head so fast, he was bound to get whiplash. Not that it could make him any dumber. It took a real level of stupidity to steal from a DiLustro.
“Don’t waste my time,” I hissed, a tinge of anger seeping through my cool facade. “You’re in enough shit as it is.”
He lifted his chin. “I had to do it,” he whined. “It was either that or get shipped off to Siberia.”
My brows furrowed. Priest must have been confused as well because he said, “I didn’t know you were Russian.” The fucker reeked of desperation and piss.
“I’m not,” he huffed, sweat glistening on his forehead. “I owe a debt to a Russian.”
I had to admit his explanation was unexpected.
Priest threw me a curious glance, then shrugged his shoulders.
It was his “I don’t give a shit” expression and he was right.
Neither of us gave a shit who this man owed a debt to.
He stole from us, so right now, he owed us and that was more important than his fuckup with the Russians.
I set my glass on the table. “Russians are the least of your worries.” Locking eyes with him, I added, “Either you pay up the money you stole or you pay another way.”
I didn’t bother to elaborate. He knew what that meant. My brother and I had pushed the competition out of Chicago, some of it out of Philly, and worked with our cousin Basilio to expand his territory in New York. Our reputation spoke for itself.
And fuck if I would ruin our reputation for anyone, least of all some sleazebag who got involved with the Russians. Did a hundred grand make a difference to our empire? Not really. But would we forgive it?
Fuck no.
My casino manager knew exactly what was coming. His knee started bouncing as though soothing a screaming baby. Panic-stricken terror entered his expression.
“I’ll never do it again,” he claimed. “Give me a month and I’ll pay it back.”
Empty promises. If he didn’t have a hundred grand today, he wouldn’t have it in a month. Even more empty promises followed, but they fell on deaf ears. Priest and I knew better than that.
A beep sounded through the intercom of my office, followed by a muffled, “Mr. DiLustro.”
It was my floor manager. “Sorry to bother you, but we might have a problem at one of the tables.”
Mildly interested since that rarely ever happened. Curiosity piquing, I decided to answer. “High stakes?”
“No, the lower-stakes tables,” he explained. “But she’s winning each hand and shows no visible signs of cheating. The girl must be counting cards.”
“First floor?”
“Yes.”
I rose from my chair, ignoring the incessant begging from my casino manager.
“We’ll be right there,” I told him, then flickered a bored glance to one of my men. “Take him downstairs and handle him.”
They’d teach him a lesson but wouldn’t kill him. He was lucky, because I probably would have. Lucky bastard.
My brother stood up. “I’m coming with you. A card-counting girl sounds like a more interesting time than this.”
Pulling out my phone, we made our way out of my office and through the hallways that would take us to the first floor. The moment we entered the gaming floor, whispers rippled amongst the patrons.
Despite our reputation, we did a good job of blending in.
The people of Chicago knew who we were, but we still managed to lure them in with our eloquence and civility.
When we wanted to show it. It was the reason women were always throwing themselves at our feet.
Priest and I moved as one, ignoring all the glances thrown our way.
I didn’t need any more shit today or I’d lose my cool.
There was commotion to our left, but my eyes were locked on the table swarming with people.
Gamblers were always attracted to the table that had large winnings. It was a firm tell. More whispers. The sound of a pair of heels ringing out above the chatter.
I spotted her the next second.
The very same girl I’d seen dancing on a bartop last month in New York City was strutting in our direction. She wore an orange minidress then, but tonight, she opted for a midnight-blue dress that hugged her soft curves just right, barely covering her ass.
More than a few men gawked at her, and I had to bite back the words that would tell everyone off. A growl vibrated in my chest but I ignored it, keeping my eyes on the woman.
Mine.
It was the damnedest thing. I wanted to pound my chest like a fucking moron, grab her by the hair, and drag her to my bed. The notion was ridiculous, yet I couldn’t shake it off.
Who is she? I wondered.
She wasn’t looking at me, but I got the distinct feeling she was coming for me. She moved with confidence, a slight stubborn tilt to her chin telling me she was accustomed to getting what she wanted.
My gaze traveled over the length of her body.
Her skin was pale and in stark contrast to her dark shoulder-length hair.
She stiffened slightly as if aware of my gaze and kept walking, her strappy heels clicking against the marble.
She was just about to pass me when her ankle wobbled and she tripped.
My hand instinctively reached out to steady her. Her long hair brushed against my sleeve and the scent of sugarplums invaded my lungs. Sugarplums. I had never met a woman that smelled so fucking good that my mouth actually watered.
Her face was pressed against my chest. It was barely a second, yet it felt like eternity. She felt so fucking right in my arms that it sent a shudder rolling down my spine.
Straightening up, she lifted her face to mine, flushed cheeks and all, then a pair of bright-blue eyes slammed into my fucking chest. The impact was so forceful, it stole my breath away.
They called me the devil, but it was an angel who was the thief.