Page 79 of Wild Ace

I will do this.

I’m strong.

I’m more than capable.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and see the image of nonno and Vinny in the newly renovated deli, laughing and speaking Italian to one another.

I take another deep breath and apply a fresh coat of deep red lipstick to my lips before turning my phone on silent and slipping both back into my small clutch purse.

Fluffing my hair, I climb out of my car and slide my hands down my sides to make sure I’m all covered. My outfit isn’t one I’m used to wearing, but I knew I needed to give myself an extra leg up.

Being underestimated because of the way I look is always a plus. So is having the ability to distract the men at the table with a simple shift of my hair or my torso to accentuate my boobs.

It doesn’t work on everyone, but I’m not exactly dealing with professionals here. At least, I’m more than certain I won’t be.

I’m wearing a short skirt that’s made of flat, silver, circular sequins, each one connected by a metal loop. There’s a white fabric lining beneath so I’m not completely exposed, and I love the way it moves when I walk. I feel a little like a pop star ready to take the stage in it.

I’ve paired it with a semi-sheer white button-down shirt, and I’ve left the buttons undone down the center of my chest to show off the white lace corset bralette I have on beneath that can pass as another top. I’ve finished off the look with silver strappy heels and a silver clutch.

I feel like a lost party girl, which feeds into the persona I’m going for tonight. I’m a little rich Upper East Side college girl who’s looking to gamble daddy’s money as a way to get back at him for ignoring me and cheating on my mom with the maid.

Dramatic? Yes.

But I like a good backstory.

I get a few looks from those I pass as I walk down the block, and with each step, I slip a little deeper into the persona.

My nerves fade and my confidence skyrockets.

My face falls from any expressions I had to remain stoic and aloof, with a hint of prissy sass.

The two big Russian men just lit up fresh cigarettes, and as I approach them, I look them up and down.

“Can we help you?” one asks, his accent thick.

“Yes, you can open the door for a lady, can’t you?”

“Restaurant closed.”

I flash them a smile. “I’m not here to eat, boys.”

The one who hasn’t spoken yet grins, flicking his ashes to the sidewalk. “We’ll have to check for weapons.”

I hold my arms out. “Does it look like I’m hiding anything?”

“It’s the rules. Everyone is checked. Step inside.”

I nod my agreement and he holds the door open for me.

“Hands out,” one instructs, and I do as he says, making sure to keep my face neutral as he pats me down. His hands linger on my hips, and when he starts to go lower, I drop my arms and grip his wrist.

“I’m not up for exploration,” I tell him, my voice level and forceful. His eyes meet mine and I hold his gaze, not backing down or looking away. “Understand?”

“Da.” Yes, he says. It’s one of the only Russian words I know.

“I need to check your bag.”

I open the clasp of my clutch and he pokes around, finding only my lipstick, compact mirror, phone, and a thick roll of cash. $10,000 to be exact.

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