6. Edward
Edward
S moke clouds the air in billowing gusts pushed from too many mouths.
They blur together in a mass of laughter and curses and drunken revelry. Lives are molded, for worse or for better, with money on the table ready to change hands.
It’s been three days since the stolen kiss at Nicola’s, and I can’t get her taste out of my mouth. No matter what I do, she is there, lurking spectral at the corners of my mind and in my fantasies.
I wake up hard and wanting her, and the thought of her practically conjures her scent.
The green felt beneath my fingertips becomes the softest material I’ve ever touched, familiar and comforting and draining at the same time. The bane of my existence and the only thing that gives me pleasure these days.
Well, not the only thing.
I roll the poker chip between my fingers, marking its path over my knuckles.
“Call?” the dealer asks.
“I’m all in.” My hand is good. Better than any of the shit I’ve had in days past, but tonight, I’ve been on a roll.
It’s a welcome change for everything I’ve clawed my way through. Winning is fucking fantastic. I need it. With tonight’s earnings, I’ll have almost enough to pay off the last of my debt.
It stops here.
No matter how bad the draw gets, no matter how sweaty I am and sick to my stomach when I need a fix, it ends with the debt paid and my name struck from a ledger I hadn’t been able to find.
I set the cards on the table at the same time the rest of the boys around me do, and their chorus of groans is a symphony to my ears. I’ve won again.
A proud, somewhat sly smile splits my face, and the cigarette dangles from the corner of my lips as I reach for the pile of winnings and draw it to me. Lil Joey, a regular at the table and a fixture of the club, shoots a glare in my direction, and I know if weapons hadn’t been checked at the door of the gambling den, he’d have a gun to my head right now.
I stack the chips into tiny towers and take a long draw of smoke until it curdles in my lungs.
Lil Joey is the least of my problems.
It took me the past two years to clear up the majority of my gambling debt, a fucking godawful habit I picked up in college and easily got out of control when things hadn’t gone my way. Dad took care of some things, threatening death should I accrue any more debts.
Tonight is my time. My winning streak is as wide as the Mississippi River.
I’ve learned my lesson. I just can’t stop yet.
Not until every red cent is back where it belongs.
There’s a control at the table. I’m the one with the power to make or break a night. There is no one else responsible for the cards except me, even if I have to borrow the money to continue the control.
What the hell will I do when I draw the line for good?
What new high should I claim?
Excitement lights a fire in my gut that has me placing my bet for the next round and watching the dealer eagerly as he shuffles the deck. I know what I’m doing. I know how to handle myself and I know how to play poker with the best of them.
“Think you’re going to kick our asses again, Balestra?” Hognose Pete Jones lets out a snort from my left, the reason for his rather unflattering nickname.
My current smoke is down to the rotten filter. I grind the stub down on the crystal ashtray before I pause to grab another and flick the lighter, turning the end to glowing amber. The first inhalation of smoke in my lungs adds euphoria to the excitement. “It’s not a plan, Pete. I’m going to beat you bloody.”
Joey sneers. “Maybe you should stop while you’re ahead.”
He’s right. I need to stop before I empty my wallet and rank up the debt yet again. Before I even have a chance to make good with?—
I’ll be a dead man walking if I dig a deeper hole.
But the smoke in my lungs and the chips in front of me are too controlling to pass up. It’s a narcissistic relationship where I gaslight myself into being unable to say no. My index finger peels away from the rest of my fist and lifts in the air.
Within seconds, a subtly dressed man walks over and inclines his head to mine, waiting for my order.
“Brandy, neat.”
Hognose Pete rolls his eyes back into his flesh forehead. “Trust you to be high and mighty with us.”
“The liquor is a personal preference,” I state. “One I don’t expect you to understand.”
A few sips stolen at my grandfather’s knee when I was little cemented my taste for the stuff. Father’s never approved. But he’s not fucking here. I am.
The chance of winning holds too much sway over me to give in to my annoyance. These two yahoos are the least likely to cause a problem, no matter how they huff and they puff. There have been some real pieces of shit in the club before, those who decide to stick a knife in the tip of your dick for looking at them sideways.
I’m one of them.
I blow a puff of stale breath into Pete’s face, grinning when the server returns with my brandy.
“Deal,” I bark at the croupier.
The unblinking man is probably in his forties, stone-faced, utterly ambivalent to whatever goes on around him. His emotions have either been carved out of him physically or disappeared bit by bit over too many years at the table. He’s one of the best goddamn card players when he’s on this side.
Thank god he’s not tonight. I’d never be able to beat him.
The first sip of brandy stings, room temperature brings out the notes in the liquor.
My new hand is less than stellar and I flick the queen to the top of the pile, ordering the rest of them behind her. Queen of Hearts. Nicola immediately flashes in my mind. The way she’d looked in the garden the other day. Flushed, chest heaving, her lips bruised from our kisses, and her pussy throbbing around my finger.
Forbidden fruit is the poison of the gods. She’s the tastiest. I’ll happily die with my head buried between her legs, lapping at her sweet pussy.
My cock gives a jump of awareness, and I glance up only when the croupier asks who wants to open the betting round.
I slide three cards forward. The queen stays with me. She’s always going to stay with me if I have my fucking way. I don’t give a shit what it takes—Nicola is going to be mine. I made up my mind in the office the other night.
Forbidden fruit, indeed. She’s the last woman I should want, and if I push Father too far, he’ll ignore every want and wish and arrange a marriage for me the same way my grandfather arranged one for him.
Nicola Salvatore will not be in the running.
Father hates Arden too much to be connected legally to the family.
Too damn bad. If it’s for a night or a life, I’m going to fuck that woman. I’m going to take what no one else has taken before and imprint my cock on her insides. No one else will do when I’m done with her. I’ll get the secrets out of her head and her body.
A chair crashes to the floor near the door.
A regular enough occurrence, and I don’t bat an eye. Not even when the shouting begins.
Hognose Pete gives another snort and shuffles his new cards into order. “Looks like someone is at it again. I glance up sharply at his tone. “Come again?”
He gestures toward the door. “Goddamn bum,” he mutters. “Why he’s got to come here just to piss away his money, I’ll never know.”
“Dude practically lives here,” Lil Joey agrees. “I can smell him already.”
Just like that, I know who they’re talking about.
My eyes narrow, the staggering figure clearer when he stumbles into the dim light of the den. Arden lists to the side and knocks into one of the guards standing watch over the door. The man shoves meat-sized fists into Arden’s chest to spin him in the opposite direction.
Drunk, I automatically assume, rejecting the gut reaction to help him. Aligning myself with him tonight, in full view of the others, will give them the wrong impression and make more enemies for the Balestras. That kind of weakness will set the vultures on you faster than a fresh kill in the middle of a road.
Father beat the lesson into me more times than I can remember.
“Pay him no attention.” I adjust my cards to incorporate the new ones the croupier slid across to me. Not bad, but not nearly as good as my last hand.
Still, I glance at Arden from the corner of my eye, puffing away on my cig like a chimney in the middle of winter.
Something’s wrong with him.
It doesn’t take a genius to note the way he skids forward, dropping over an empty chair to grab his bearings. Worse than drunk because Joey and Hognose are right.
He’s at the club more than he’s at home.
We’ve seen Arden Salvatore drunk more than we’ve ever seen him sober, but tonight is different. His face has a slightly green cast to it, his neck mottled, and the black shirt clinging to his frame with sweat.
Even from this distance, his trembling hands shake hard enough to cause an earthquake.
Fuck me.
Nicola will never forgive me if I do nothing. If I sit in this chair with my ass glued to the seat and ignore him like every other man in this place, she’ll know. Somehow, it will get back to her.
Why now, though? Why would I jump to his rescue when I never have before? There are protocols we follow, those spoken or written and those living under our skin invisibly.
She’ll rip me from navel to asshole in a heartbeat, which will certainly put a damper on my plan to bed her.
“Balestra? Call it,” Hognose Pete presses.
With a sigh of impatience, I toss my hand into the center of the table and stub out my cigarette on the green felt. “I’m done. Take this as your miracle for the night, boys. Now you might have an actual chance.”
“You can’t be serious.” Lil Joey stares at me with his mouth half a second away from unhinging. “You were winning. You’re going to walk away?”
Impatience knots my brows together. “And now I’m done.”
This is suicide. The thought dogs my steps all the way to the entrance. Arden stumbles to his knees, and I reach down to grab him, his skin fish-pale with a strange green-and-white cast to his features.
His eyes are black orbs in his face and too wide to be normal. He’s shitfaced, but that’s not all.
I know the look. I’ve lived it a thousand times myself.
He smells like sweat, shit, and something metallic.
“Salvatore, get control of yourself.” I grip his shoulders as I hoist him up and set him square on his feet. “If you want to get high, then do it at home when there's no one to see you.”
I whisper the last part in his ear and covertly steer him toward the restrooms.
His body resists movement, his feet stumbling over themselves and his knees locked together. He reaches for me, grasping my shirt and almost taking me to the floor with him.
My stomach drops.
“Ed…. ward?”
It’s an effort to get out my name, and those two syllables cost him his breath. Instead of leaning on me for support, he pushes back, again turning and falling into the door.
Laughter trails us all the way outside.
“Let him go!” someone calls from the back of the room. “He’s a loser.”
“Better yet, bring him back,” another person yells. “Let him piss his money away.”
He’s got more money than I do on his worst day. Addictions are terrible masters, though. They ride you hard and make you do things a sane person wouldn’t do.
My fingers itch to grab my gun, hidden in my holster and unloaded, as per the rules of the club. The metal detectors at the door and the less-than-savory pat down keep the animals inside in line.
Outside the doors, though, honor and mercy disappear. The bouncers at the door hand off my personal box of belongings. Inside, the bullets stand at attention like rows of obedient soldiers.
I hustle to shove them in my pockets and hurry.
Outside , the sultry night air shoots down my lungs and adds twenty pounds to my weight.
“Salvatore, come on,” I shout after the wobbling figure. Shadows reach out from the walls and cloak him like a fine mist. “I’ll get you a cab. Let’s get you home.” I groan, my vocal cords rubbing together almost painfully. “I’m sure your family is worried about you.”
The fucking man is losing his marbles, and he’s going to be a bigger liability than we thought if he keeps this up. Father won’t take this news lightly unless I can find a way to smooth things over.
Fuck, I can’t leave Arden this way.
Instinct prickles the back of my neck, and I cock the gun, now fully loaded and primed at the man’s back in case he decides to go squirrelly on me, the box in my pocket.
I’ve been caught off guard by less.
The night is bleak, and the stars are hesitant to shine in this part of town. The shadows only grow longer and darker and colder the further we walk, and it takes me half a heartbeat to realize I’ve lost track of him.
The hot stench of garbage assaults my nostrils and I wonder how many windows of the above buildings have opened just to throw their filth outside. Arden is somewhere among them.
Up ahead, flesh collides with flesh, the sounds muffled by the mist.
“You can go fuck yourself. I’m not giving it up. You have a better—chance…fuck you.”
That’s Arden, more coherent than he’d been half a second ago.
“You have a lot of nerve, Mr. Salvatore.”
And he’s not alone.
“I’ve got all the nerve I need to deal with bullshit artists like you.” What the hell is Arden doing, and why is he out here? Who is he meeting?
I press my back to the wall and hold the overheated, stench-filled air in my lungs, waiting for the other person to speak again before I make a move. My nerves are shot, screaming at me to back up and pretend I haven’t heard anything. Something keeps me bound in place.
The other man laughs. “What do you think you’re going to do? My cock is bigger than your fucking blade.”
“It’s big enough to gut you,” Arden argues.
“I’d love to see you try. Please.” He pauses, and from the street, someone leans on their car horn. “Give me your best shot. I am an open target.”
I chance a look around the corner, seeing nothing but the hazy outline of Arden’s back. His bulk obscures the other person from view. Only the top of his fedora is visible from this angle.
My throat goes dry and scratchy. What kind of stupid prick wears a fedora?
Arden goes down. One moment, he’s standing; the next, he’s on his side and curled in a semi-fetal position. The fedora disappears out of sight.
Cold dread snakes along my spine and goose bumps erupt, an odd contrast to the sheen of sweat on my neck. Arden doesn’t get up.
The same instinct that had me drawing the gun sees me pausing there, waiting for the other man to leave. From somewhere in the distance, a siren cuts through the evening hush, and a chorus of angry dogs howl in its wake. The shrillness pierces my eardrums.
Sure we’re alone, I head out, crouching beside him.
“Salvatore, damn you, get your ass up. I’m taking you home.”
He’s still beneath my probing hands.
I get him onto his back, his eyes open and wide and unseeing. The end point of a knife sticks out from a wound in his gut, and the puddle of blood seeping from it grows wider with every second.
“Goddamn it.” The words are a whisper and a curse.
Murder.
He’s deader than a gutted fish, and I’m the only witness.