Chapter 10
Ten
Blackjack
The casino looked different when you came in through the back.
No lights, no noise, no drunk tourists sleepwalking between the tables. Just polished stone, quiet air, and men in suits who all looked like they’d shot someone before breakfast.
I walked point. Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes fanned behind me in a loose wedge. My cut sat heavy across my shoulders. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into someone else’s house with your hands already open.
We passed two cameras in the first twenty feet. I knew there were more I couldn’t see.
“Friendly,” Mirage muttered under his breath. “Real warm welcome.”
“They let us in the door,” I said. “That is warmth.”
He snorted, but shut up.
The hallway to the private elevator was short and clean. No carpet, no clutter. Just that echo off marble and glass. Two men flanked the security point at the end, hands resting near their holsters, but they weren’t the problem.
The problem was the man leaning against the wall between them.
Black dress shirt, top buttons open over a flash of inked chest. Slicked-back black hair, cigar clamped between white teeth.
Gold cross with a blood-red stone hanging dead center, the same cross stitched subtly into the breast of his blazer.
Tattoos up his neck and along the jaw. A smile that never touched his eyes.
Vespiano “The Shark” Infante. Head of Security.
“Alice,” he said, around smoke. “You brought your whole circus.”
“It’s Blackjack to you,” I corrected. “And this is the stripped-down version.”
His gaze slid over my men. Lingering on patches. On hands. On waists.
“Roman says no steel past this point,” Vespiano said. “House rules. You know how it is.”
He already knew we knew how it was. Just decided to bring it up like the prick I knew him to be.
I nodded once. No point in arguing. We’d kept it light on purpose. Coming in here with rifles would have sent a different message than we wanted. Besides, this isn’t the Wild West. Open carry isn’t permitted in this state. We always have to keep them hidden.
“Guns,” I said to my men.
Spade went first. He pulled his pistol, butt-first toward Vespiano, then another from the small of his back.
Mirage followed, then Ace, then Snake Eyes.
I handed mine over last. For a second, Vespiano weighed it in his hand like he was considering keeping it as a souvenir.
Then he gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward with a black case.
All six pistols dropped into the foam with dull thuds.
Vespiano snapped the case closed. “You’re naked now,” he said, amused.
“Only if you think that’s all we brought,” I said.
He grinned. “Roman said to keep it respectful. So that’s it. No frisking. No hands in your pockets. You can thank him later.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “I get twitchy when men start feeling me up for free.”
A couple of his guys smiled before they could stop themselves. Vespiano shook his head and thumbed the elevator call.
The doors slid open. Interior gleamed steel and glass.
“Top floor,” he said. “I’ll meet you up there.”
“You planning on beating us there through the vents?” Snake Eyes muttered behind me.
Vespiano’s grin sharpened. “Don’t worry about how I move. Just be grateful I let you.”
I stepped into the elevator. The others followed. The door slid shut, locking us in.
No guards. No guns. No witnesses.
“Man,” Mirage said, low. “If I wanted to kill five bikers without making a mess, this would be my chance to do it. Cut the cables. Done.”
“Yeah,” Snake Eyes added. “Or just rig the brakes to let go somewhere around floor ten. Bet the view’s great on the way down.”
“Nut up and shut up,” I said.
They did. Mostly.
I pressed my back to the wall and faced the doors. You could feel the car start to rise, smooth and silent.
If this was a setup, they’d do it clean. Door opens, guns already up, five bullets center mass, maybe one mercy headshot each. No yelling. No speeches.
Roman liked order. If he decided we were a problem, we’d die in a way that didn’t stain his carpet.
I’d told Liberty, 8-Ball, Jersey and Turnpike if they didn’t hear from me within an hour, they’d treat it like I hadn’t walked back out.
I wasn’t in a hurry to cash that plan in.
The numbers climbed soft red over the door. My hand twitched where it wanted a gun that wasn’t there. I let it. Wanting and needing were two different things.
The elevator chimed once and then slid to a stop.
We all exhaled through our teeth at the same time.
The doors opened onto guns.
Three men. All of them already had pistols drawn, aimed steady at chest height. Suits pressed. Faces blank. No one yelling. No one posturing. Just the silent statement that we can end you before you take a single step.
We didn’t move.
One of them dipped his chin an inch. The guns lowered in a smooth motion, not quite casual. A path opened.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “This way.”
We stepped out.
The penthouse opened ahead like a showpiece. Everything was black and chrome and money. Walls of glass looked out over the city and the line of casinos along the shoreline. The sunlight came in hard, turned the bottles behind the bar into colored glass shards.
Roman Giorlando sat with his back to that view.
High-backed armchair, turned halfway toward the window. He was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, an old man’s ease over an old predator’s frame. Silver threaded his dark hair. His hands rested easy on the arms of the chair, but nothing about him was actually relaxed.
His eyes were on us before the guards finished stepping aside.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Come in.”
I walked forward until I was a few feet from him and stopped. Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes spread out a little behind me. The closest chairs were low-backed and inconvenient, so I didn’t take them.
“Roman,” I greeted.
He smiled faintly, but it never reached his eyes. “You made quite a fuss to get my attention,” he said. “Let’s see what this is about.”
Behind me, toward the bar, a glass clinked.
“Blackjack,” a smooth voice said. “Good to see you still upright.”
Vladimir Yegorovich lounged at the bar like he was born there. Pale gray suit tailored sharp, pale eyes lighter than they should’ve been in that face. Silver beard trimmed perfectly. His red tie was undone just enough to look intentional.
He held a lowball glass in one hand. The ice tapped against the crystal when he tilted it.
“Vladimir,” I said. “You still pretending you don’t drink vodka?”
“These days, I drink whatever doesn’t get me killed,” he replied. “Come sit. Have something.”
“I’ll stay on my feet,” I replied.
Valentino, Roman’s eldest, stood a little off to the side, near a low table. Younger, but not soft. Dark hair, suit that fit too well, posture just stiff enough to say he hadn’t earned the right to slouch here yet. His eyes flicked between Roman, Vladimir, and us, taking in how everyone breathed.
Roman gestured to the chair directly across from him. “Sit, Alice.”
I didn’t wince at the name. Not anymore. Only certain people got to use it. People I had history with. Roman was one of them, whether I liked it or not.
I took the chair. It put me facing him, with the bar and my men in my peripheral vision.
Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes drifted in a loose line toward the bar. Vladimir handed them each a drink without asking what they wanted. Mirage accepted first. Spade took his and set it on the counter untouched.
Roman watched all of it, then dragged his gaze back to me.
“I understand you brought me something dangerous,” he said. “Or at least news of something dangerous.”
“I brought you a problem,” I said. “Whether it’s dangerous depends on what you do with it.”
He huffed. “You always did speak in riddles when you were nervous.”
“If I was nervous, you’d know,” I said. “I’m being careful. There’s a difference.”
“Careful,” he repeated. “Good. Be careful, then. Start at the beginning.”
I did.
“Couple nights ago,” I said. “We took a job off your pier. High buyer, simple delivery, drop site, contact name and a key. No questions asked. You know the kind.”
He nodded once. His face didn’t change, but something in his posture sharpened. “Which pier?”
I named it. Gave him the container number. The shipping company. Reminded him that Salvatore handed it off to us. His eyes narrowed with each detail, especially the mentioning of his youngest son.
“We loaded the bike up, rolled out,” I went on.
“Made it to the drop site when a team hit us. These weren’t just street corner punks.
They were professionals. Coordinated. They wanted that bike, not us.
Miami took off with it to a safe house. Wrecked after fleeing there to another after discovering what was inside that bike. ”
I kept my tone flat when I said it, but a mental image of him laying up in a bed flashed hot in my head.
“Your man lived?” Roman questioned.
“For now,” I said. “He’s in a bed at Shoreline. Broken, stitches everywhere. Code silver went off yesterday when a man in a suit walked into his hallway with a gun and intent.”
Roman’s jaw ticked.
“Was a cleanup job for sure. They didn’t like that the package didn’t make it to its destination. They didn’t like it less that others were now connected to it. So, they went looking for the last man who touched it and found him in a gown instead of on his bike.”
Roman’s eyes were on me the whole time. He watched my mouth. My eyes. My hands.
“You keep saying ‘they’ like you know who ‘they’ are,” he said.
“I think I know who ordered the move,” I said. “The Vincinos, even though it rolled off your docks.”
“And you think that means I signed the death warrant?” he asked.
“I think it means someone used your pier to move something that can rearrange this city, and they thought you’d be either too blind to see it or too compromised to care,” I said. “I’m here to find out which one they’re banking on.”
His eyes cooled. “Careful, Alice.”