Page 58 of Vicious Little Games

“About to start my senior year in the fall working toward a business administration degree.”

“Very impressive.”

“Not really,” Cass mutters from behind me. I hear the stool squeak as she climbs back on it, so I retake my seat as well.

“And you are?” Inessa asks once I’m no longer blocking Cass from view.

“Cassandra Salvato,” I say in introduction. Inessa holds out her palm, but Cass looks at it with disgust.

“She goes by Cass and she's in a bad mood,” I say to excuse her rudeness. “Your friends were running their mouths to get a reaction out of her. I don't think it was the reaction they were hoping for.”

“I guess not,” Inessa agrees with a smirk. “Can I get you another beer? Something to eat?”

“Oh, no. I'm fine, thanks. Cass?” I glance over my shoulder to ask. Her glare is the only answer she gives me before she takes another small swig from her mostly full glass of beer.

“I think we're both all set for now,” I inform Inessa.

Smiling, she says, “Well, it was nice to meet you, Cole. If you need anything, just ask.”

“Oh, hey, Inessa,” I call out when she begins to walk away. “What time is the poker tournament tomorrow?”

Turning back around, she says, “It starts at midnight in an attempt to see who gets the most drunk so the others can take all their money. Are you thinking about attending?”

“Maybe. Do you play?”

She shakes her head of long, straight light blonde hair that’s similar enough to my mother’s that I know I could never, ever fuck her. That’s probably why I’ve always preferred brunettes. Or feisty redheads. “No. Men only. And I'm not a gambler.”

“So, you just run things around here?” I ask. Flirting with her will be easy, even if it won’t lead to anything else.

“Yes. I took over things for Anton Kozlov. You may have heard of him.”

Grinding my teeth together, I tell her the truth. “I heard of what he had his men do to my mother.”

It sounds like she curses in Russian.

“What was that?”

“Sorry. I said that he brought shame on our name, and I'm glad he is dead. He is dead, isn't he? Nobody has seen him in nearly a year. There were rumors that Dante Salvato’s torturer Eligor tore him apart, limb from limb.”

“Probably something like that,” I agree, even though I don’t know for sure.

“Your mother did not teach you Russian?”

“Why does everyone seem so surprised about that? I had no clue she spoke any language but English.”

“These men here prefer to speak it in business dealings. They like being able to keep secrets, to have the upper hand on their opponents and rivals.”

“Right, well, I guess I fall into one of those categories now.”

“No, you are family.”

I barely hold in my cringe at that disgusting thought. I don't want to be a blood relative to a murderous bastard. The fact that these people think that being related to Petrov is something to be proud of is disturbing.

I'm proud to be my mother's son. She raised me to do what's right, to appreciate everything I have, and that being rich isn't worth sacrificing your soul since that's the asking price in this world. I don't see stealing from the undeserving as wrong, not when I only keep what I need to get by and give the rest to help others who weren't born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Or the ones like my mother who walked away from the silver spoon because she knew there was blood dripping from it and always would be.

“So, will I see you tomorrow night at the tournament?” Inessa asks, making me realize I was lost in my thoughts for too damn long.

“Ah, yeah, maybe. Lev and Ony invited me. Or they did before their wrists got injured.”

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