Mafia Daddies (Ruthless Billionaire Mafia Kings #6)

Chapter 1 Remy

REMY

“No more bets.” I scan the faces of the guests seated around the roulette table, making sure that they’re aware the betting is closed.

Working on the casino floor is strangely therapeutic.

There’s a bubble around me. I’m untouchable, elevated, respected, because I’m the one calling the shots.

Maybe George, my ex, was right, and I’m a control freak who gets off on telling people what to do.

Or maybe I allowed his gaslighting to stick a little too tightly to my skin, and this is how it feels to be free.

“The wheel is spinning.”

Perhaps this is why the roulette wheel is my favorite. A script to follow. Very little interaction with the guests.

I never enjoyed math at high school. I didn’t hang out with the geeky kids, numbers and science experiments were not my friends, and I didn’t fit in with the popular kids either.

My mom always said I would find my tribe when I went to college.

But even she never considered the possibility that I might be happy without one. Safer without one too.

My sister Danielle found her tribe in ninth grade. She never made it to college because they worshipped the god of medically induced highs that quickly descended into a black hole of self-loathing and fixes that stopped fixing anything worth living for.

“The ball has dropped.”

The wheel stops spinning. The pill settles on black 28. My hands move automatically, collecting chips from the losers while my brain calculates the winner’s rewards. It’s only my second week here at the Rinse casino, and I see chips in my dreams.

Every. Damned. Night.

Better than replaying my final conversation with George, you know, the one where he said, “I’m too young for commitment, Remy. I need to fly, and you’re holding me back.”

So, I did what any self-respecting control freak would do: I let him go and watched him fly straight into the arms of another woman who became his fiancée three months later.

The guests around the table slide their chips onto their chosen number.

I’m invisible. The tailored black pants, crisp white shirt, and neat gold waistcoat helps, the uniform turning me into someone who exists inside a different reality to theirs.

Invisibility, I’ve discovered, is my superpower.

I feel a bit like a ghost peering down on them from above, reading their minds, breathing their perfume, and never giving them a second thought when they walk away.

There’s the Asian man in the expensive black suit who has already lost close to twenty thousand dollars this evening. He’s a regular. Sometimes he brings Lady Luck with him; tonight, he left her at home. It doesn’t seem to spoil his enjoyment.

Next to him is the woman in the sparkly gold dress that reveals a little too much wobbly cleavage. Blonde. Well-groomed. I can’t see her legs from my position, but I’m guessing from the way the other guests check her out when they approach the table that she also reveals a little too much thigh.

Ms. Cleavage wins this round, flexes her scarlet talons, already choosing her next bet.

I lose track of time, another bonus for working the casino floor. No clocks. The pit boss moves us around like pawns on a chess board, meaning there’s just us and the game. Regular breaks, and the money is decent.

What’s not to like.

“The boss has his eye on you tonight,” Fran whispers in my ear when she comes to replace me.

She’s wearing the same uniform; her dark curls pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck.

I follow her gaze and quickly lower my eyes.

“Bash Murray,” she continues. “One of four brothers and they all look like that.”

We switch places, and Fran steps into the neutral expression that will be her mask for the next sixty minutes.

I scan the floor for the pit boss as I head towards his empty station.

I can’t see him anywhere, but now that Fran has brought Bash Murray to my attention, my gaze keeps drifting his way, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it.

I’m a control freak with absolutely zero control over my body, apparently.

His hair is sandy, but it catches the light from the lamps set into the wall behind him on the mezzanine floor and glints red like he attached tinsel to the roots when he was getting ready for work.

His eyes are deep-set, his jawline strong, his clothes unaffordable to any regular individual.

Not my usual type. Not that I have a type since George.

Men fuck with your brains and then move on, instantly forgetting that they ever told you they loved you.

But my heart is pumping blood around my veins as though it’s preparing to enter a boxing ring. I shake my head. I’m done with boxing matches. The referee is always biased in the wrong corner, and the odds are never in the woman’s favor.

Pit boss. I mentally shake myself back on track. I’m working. I need to grab my bottle of water and move onto the next table. I don’t need to get the attention of Bastien Murray, for all the wrong reasons, and find myself unemployed by the end of the night for taking an unplanned break.

But my head is scrambled by eyes that miss nothing and a chiseled jawline that Hollywood would latch onto if they ever spotted it. So, I don’t see the server until the tray of drinks he’s carrying collides with my chest.

For one horrible moment, the world stops spinning as glasses topple onto the floor, their contents saturating the front of my uniform and splashing my face.

Then, time speeds up again as a whiskey tumbler hits my foot.

I’m dripping with whiskey and rum and champagne, the smell alone sending dollar signs flashing behind my eyes. I don’t remember reading about this scenario in the rules, but if I’m expected to pay for this lot, I can kiss goodbye to my first week’s wages.

“I’m so sorry.” I stand like a scarecrow, arms at right angles to my body, liquor dripping off my nose and fingertips when I shake my hands.

The server, a man in the same uniform, the front of his pants now wet too, blinks at me while he processes the collision.

All around us, customers stare at the shattered glass and liquor stains on the carpet as if it’s a corpse, horrified that this could be allowed to happen on a prestigious casino floor.

“Here, let me help you.” The voice belongs to a guest. He’s immaculate, of course, wearing a gray suit that screams money, mixed-race with thick black hair, and a kind face.

I don’t respond. If the pit boss finds a guest clearing up my mess, I’ll be collecting my purse and following the exit signs before I can apologize a second time. Instead, I kneel on the floor and start picking up the biggest shards of glass.

My hands are trembling. I barely even register the gash across my palm until the guest crouches beside me and pulls my hand towards him.

The server has disappeared. The other guests have returned to their chips, heads back in the game.

My eyes are filled with tears. Not from the blood oozing from my sliced skin, but because I’ve ruined my chances of earning enough money to live on and clear some of my student debt at the same time.

All because I was too busy staring at Bastien Murray.

“This is what happens,” I murmur to myself, sniffing back tears, “when men are involved.”

It’s a cop-out, and I know it. This was totally my fault; I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I can hardly accuse the Rinse’s owner of causing an accident with his perfect jawline.

“Hey.” The guest—why is he even still here—tilts my chin towards him with his free hand and flashes his big brown eyes my way like he’s a fucking hypnotist or something, working his anxiety-reducing magic on me. “Shit happens.” He shrugs like it’s no biggie.

The incident has interfered with normal brain function. It takes a beat too long for me to remember that contact with the guests is Strictly Forbidden and pull away from him.

It takes another beat for me to understand that his hand brushing my breast through my waistcoat wasn’t accidental.

“Sir.” The tremor in my voice lets me down. Massively. “Please back off.”

Because, you know, he’s still a guest even if he did take advantage of the situation to cop a feel.

The smile disappears. His brown eyes turn cold. “Just trying to help.” At the same time, his fingers slide inside my shirtsleeve and caress my wrist while his other hand rests on my hip.

Okay, I didn’t imagine that.

Before I can recall a single move that I learned in self-defense class and adapt it to a scenario where the wealthy guest is always right, the guy is dragged away from me by the collar of his extremely expensive suit jacket.

He springs back onto his feet, hands balled into fists, ready to land a punch on whoever interfered with his little game. He must realize who his opponent is at the same time as I let out a gasp.

Bastien Murray. Bash to anyone who knows him. Apparently.

And he’s even more god-like close up. My body doesn’t know whether to crawl under the nearest table and hide or bat my eyelashes at him in slow motion and make this the meet-cute worthy of a cheesy Hallmark movie. Minus the snow. There’s no snow in New York in July.

“Mr. Murray.” The guest alters his stance and shrugs his suit jacket back into place. “It was an accident.” It’s unclear if he’s talking about the shattered tray of drinks or him touching me. Until he adds, “No need to discipline the girl.”

I swallow hard and drag myself back onto my feet. My legs are trembling. I’ve been here a week, and I’ve already blown it because this asshole thinks he’s better than me. Because he believes that losing a fortune publicly gives him the right to objectivize the staff.

And of course, the owner will side with him.

I back off a couple of steps and then scurry towards the staffroom out the back, spotting the pit boss heading my way with a scowl on his face that would give Medusa a run for her money.