Page 3 of Twisted Fate

Need, sudden and violent, rises within me as soon as her blue eyes lock with mine. The need to have her, to possess her. I don’t know another woman who’s made my cock this hard this fast. So I ask her name.

She brushes me off like a harmless mosquito who’s landed for a quick bite. Not an experience I’ve had before.

Then she takes off while Dante and Cassio cackle and crack jokes at my expense. I lose sight of her for a few minutes as I join my brothers at the bar and I have no idea why I even care. But I do. I want to know where she is, who she is. I want to know every fucking thing about her.

“Blondie has reappeared,” Dante says, as if I haven’t already homed in on her like a fucking missile.

She stands across the casino floor beside a row of slot machines. Even from this distance I notice two things: She looks scared and her right cheek is bright red. Like someone hit her. Fury ignites in my gut.

My gaze snares hers. Her eyes widen and she takes a half step toward me.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn my head toward my brother.

“Just heard from Dad,” Cassio says, sliding his phone into the inside pocket of his jacket. “He wants to meet for dinner. Talk about the Ivanovs.”

I grunt my assent and turn back toward the woman.

She’s gone. Again.

“Fuck.” I look around, but don’t see her.

What I do see is a guy holding one hand to the side of his head, pushing through the crowd, going up on his toes and shifting side to side. Looking for someone. I’ve seen this guy before… Names don’t always stick with me, but faces, I never forget.

I’ve seen that face more than once in the past few weeks. My hackles rise. I’m not a big believer in coincidence.

He notices me studying him and turns away. I follow his gaze toward the lobby and catch a glimpse of the woman.

“Dante, follow him. I want to know who he is and what he’s doing here,” I say, already walking away. People move out of my way on instinct. Cassio calls it the Red Sea effect.

The lobby’s nearly empty when I get there. A group of older couples laughing and joking. Some people checking in. A lone guy talking loudly on his phone, as if he thinks the whole world is hanging on his every word.

No sign of the blonde.

I’m not sure why I feel disappointed. It’s not like I can’t get any piece of ass I want.

But for some reason, I want her.

We’re in the private dining room at one of my father’s favorite restaurants, the five of us at a table that can seat ten, Papa at the head, Leo at his right hand, facing the door, Dante beside him. I’m at Papa’s left, facing the windows that overlook the garden, Cassio beside me. Sabina’s going to be pissed that she wasn’t included. My kid sister loves this place, but tonight is for business. I’ll bring her a dessert to make it up to her.

The walls and drapery are deep royal purple; the overhead chandelier drips black crystals. Behind my father’s chair is a large, ornate mirror that hangs above a credenza boasting silver-framed photos of famous—and infamous—guests. The feeling of the room is intimate, elegant.

An armed soldato stands just inside the closed door. There’s another just outside. My father, Salvatore Russo, is a careful man.

“I don’t like it, Papa,” Leo says, frowning. He takes a sip of his Roagna Crichet Paje Barbaresco, a full bodied, dry red. It pairs well with pasta. Unfortunately for him, tonight the sixteen-course menu is French. Not a single pasta dish in sight. But Leo likes what he likes.

Papa savors a bite of Ossetra caviar, a sip of Sauvignon Blanc, glances at Leo, and shrugs. “Vlasta is dead. Mikhail is in charge. There is nothing to like or dislike.”

Vlasta Ivanov died six months ago. Heart attack. He and Papa hadn’t been friends. That would have been pushing it. But in our line of work, knowing your enemy is essential. There’d been a grudging respect between Papa and Vlasta and that meant our two families had been able to divide up Las Vegas in an amicable way.

Problem is, Vlasta’s brother Mikhail inherited the leadership position, and Mikhail doesn’t respect anyone. He’s a wild card, and the way he’s stomping on long held agreements is telling us we need a plan.

“He had a man at one of our casinos tonight,” I say. We don’t own the casino, but we do claim it as our turf. Despite a colorful history with organized crime, Las Vegas casinos are now owned and operated by large corporations, subject to rigid oversight and licensing. We can’t directly get a finger in that pie. But while every casino has the occasional big winner, more often they have big losers. Our family’s agreement with the Ivanovs means that we extend credit to the losers at our casinos and they extend credit at theirs. And by credit, I mean loans at two points a week. Some people might call that loan sharking. We call it business. “He’s an Ivanov associate. I’ve seen him with Nikolai.” Mikhail’s son.

My father leans back in his chair. “What was he doing there?”

I play the scene in my mind. “Following a blonde.”

Leo scowls. “You think Ivanov’s running whores on our turf?”

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