Page 66 of Forgotten Deal

Glancing over to the coffee table where we had our little game, I decide to torture myself by reading her fantasy. I promised Katerina I wouldn’t look, but she hates me now anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Unfolding the paper, I’m shocked when I see it’s blank. She only pretended to write something down, and that means she threw the game.

Walking over to the liquor cabinet, I pour myself a drink. Too many thoughts are spinning around in my head like a ball on a roulette wheel, and I knock back the whiskey, welcoming the burning distraction.

Unfortunately, the booze does nothing to silence the questions. Why would Katerina intentionally lose the game? Because she was playing the role of my perfect fantasy girl so I’d be easier to hustle?

Flinging my empty glass across the room in a rage, it hits the wall and shatters.

If Kitty Kat is playing cat and mouse with the family, she needs to understand one thing: she’s the mouse in this game, and I’m the cat.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Kat

Sitting up with a groan, my head feels as heavy as a bowling ball on top of my shoulders, and it takes my confused brain a moment to remember why. There’s a glass of water and two ibuprofen on my nightstand. Ha! As if I’d ever ingest anything that man offered me after what he did.

I march to the bathroom, pouring the water down the drain and tossing the pills.

After getting ready for the day, my first stop is a drug store for a new bottle of ibuprofen, then on to the bakery. I grab a much-needed coffee; unfortunately, the coffee comes with an unneeded lecture from my mamá about my whereabouts. “Dominic came by looking for you. I told him to stay away.” She points her boney finger at me.

“Fine by me.” I sigh, too emotionally beaten down by life to worry about my ex.

“What’s wrong?” Mamá narrows her eyes at me.

What’s wrong? Where do I even begin to answer that question? I’m persona non grata with the Parisi family. I have no idea how I’m supposed to work my way into an illegal gambling racket. The man I was catching feelings for feels nothing for me. “I’ve just got bad PMS.” Which is piling on at this point.

Clocking out after my shift—I was a shitty dealer this evening and got verbally reprimanded for incorrectly calculating two big payouts—I change out of my uniform and into my street clothes before meeting Taylor at The Diamond bar.

“Nice venue choice,” I comment, taking a seat.

“Hey, I thought we loved the free pretzel bites!”

I wrinkle my nose. Not enough to come back to this bar and be reminded of Mr. Psycho.

She raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m just tired and in a bitchy mood,” I tell her.

“First round’s on me,” she says sympathetically.

“Maybe just one round; I’m thinking about working out tomorrow morning,” I say.

“Look at you being all fitness chic now,” she says smugly. “Once you start boxing, it’s addictive. Am I right?”

“Totally,” I lie. “Hey, that reminds me: any word from Russell about future parties? I could use the extra cash.”

“No, but I’m with you—I’m always up for an extra side hustle,” Taylor agrees.

“Do you happen to have his number?” I try.

“Lemmie see if I saved it.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls. “Yep. I just forwarded you his contact info.”

“Awesome, thank you.”

“Now you’ve got his number, so why don’t you?—”

“Not my type,” I cut her off. My new dating philosophy: any man who’s connected to the Parisi family—friend or foe—is not my type.

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