Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I ’ve been run off my feet all fucking night. I don’t remember this bar being so damn busy when my grandfather was the one in charge. I had no clue the old man was leaving it to me until two weeks ago… after he died and I got a call from the estate lawyer. I was surprised. And to be honest, I have no intention of holding on to it, but I have to keep turning a profit if I have any hopes of selling the joint.
I don’t need the responsibility of owning a business. I’m good at what I do. I just don’t do it legally, because there’s far more money to be made in illegal gambling. Cards. Poker, to be exact. I’m fucking good at it. Two game nights a month will bring in close to one mil in cash.
The problem with cash is that Uncle Sam asks too many questions, especially if I were to deposit any of it into a bank. It takes creative accounting to get around that. And the bar, well, it might just be worth keeping for that reason alone. Money laundering is much easier when you have a business to “launder” it with.
“I heard that Valentino-Petrov princess did it,” one of the guys sitting at the bar says, and I instantly tune in to the conversation he’s having with his friend.
“No way a princess could do that. Three of them?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. They don’t fuck around when it comes to teaching the offspring in those families. Mix Russian and Italian blood together and you’ve got yourself a nuclear fucking weapon. Those Ukrainian bastards should have known better than to go after the girl.”
I continue wiping over the bar, in the same spot, as I listen. Mabilia was attacked. She left my apartment alone and was fucking attacked. What the fuck was I thinking, letting her walk the streets alone?
Fuck. I pull out my phone and open Instagram. It doesn’t take long for me to find her account. Her last post was this morning, a picture of her legs. The caption reads: one foot in front of the other.
I continue scrolling her feed until I find a photo of her in a school uniform. She’s with another girl. New York Prep. Of course she goes to that preppy, rich kid school. “Hey, Denny, you good if I take off for a minute?” I ask, throwing the towel onto the bar top.
“Would it make a difference if I say no?” Denny replies.
“Nope.” I walk out of the bar. I don’t know why I need to see her. I just want to make sure she’s okay. That’s it. I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have let her leave alone. Who the fuck lets an eighteen-year-old girl walk out of their apartment alone at night?
Me. I’m a fucking idiot. I should have come up with something to tell her. Stretch the truth about how I make my money. I’m not a liar, though. I’m many things, but a liar ain’t one of them.
I may not be a liar. But I feel like a fucking perv, sitting in front of a school while skimming Mabilia’s Instagram. I scroll back up and click on the icon to send her a message.
Me:
I’m out front of your school. I need to see you.
I don’t expect her to respond. There’s only an hour until the bell rings. I can wait, hope to catch her walking out. But then my phone buzzes.
Mabilia:
Who is this?
Me:
It’s Insta, babe. I know you can see who it is.
Mabilia:
Why are you at my school?
Me:
I want to see you.
Mabilia:
Why?
I groan as I run a hand through my hair. Why the fuck is she so aggravating?
Me:
You asked a question last night. I want to give you the answer.
She reads the message but doesn’t reply. I’m ready to get up and go looking for her when I see her walking out. “Are you stalking me now?” Mabilia asks before stopping right in front of me.
My eyes hone in on the big fucking bruise on her face. “What the fuck? Who did this?” I ask, cupping her cheek.
Mabilia steps back. “You should see the other guys.”
“Guys?” I raise an eyebrow. I’m ready to fucking kill whoever laid a hand on her. “Who?”
“Why? So you can go and kill them in my honor?” She laughs.
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not opposed to it.” I’ve never killed anyone before, but the thought doesn’t bother me. You don’t grow up where I did without knowing how the streets work, how to fight.
“You’re too late.” Mabilia leans up on her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “My Papa taught me how to defend my own honor.”
“Are you okay?”
There’s a slight tremor to her bottom lip, but that’s the only sign I see that she’s not. “I’ve been better,” she says. “What’s the answer to my question?”
“I play poker,” I admit. I’ve never told anyone other than Denny how I make my money. My mom thinks I have a respectable job, and I plan to let her keep thinking that.
“Poker? You make money playing poker?” Mabilia laughs.
“In underground tournaments,” I add. Maybe the reason I’m telling her is because I know who her family is. This isn’t a girl who’s going to blanch at me partaking in illegal activities.
“Of course you do,” she says. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure. What do you need?” I ask.
“It could end up with you dead,” Mabilia says with a smirk.
“Walking the streets of this city could end up with me dead, babe,” I remind her. “Now, what do you need?”
“A hug,” she whispers, and her voice breaks a little at the end.
I reach out and tug her to my chest. “Giving you a hug is going to risk my life?” I ask when her head rests against my shoulder.
“If you knew my papa or nonno, you’d understand,” she says. Her arms wrap around me and she holds on tight.