Page 15 of Ruthless Bratva King

I’ve made mistakes before, but this one feels like it could cost me everything.

Attachment is weakness.

I should have that tattooed on my fucking eyelids.

The biting wind cuts through my jacket as I approach the building. Two men leaning against the door give me a once-over, their eyes narrowing when they see the tattoos on my knuckles.

“Who are you?” one of them asks in an Italian accent, spitting on the sidewalk. He’s wiry and pale, with bad teeth and worse manners.

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. The way I carry myself is enough to confirm it.

“Who you chasing?” the other man grunts. He’s broader, slower. Easier to predict.

“Jimmy Carlton,” I say evenly.

They exchange a glance, the wiry one smirking. “That bastard owe you money too? Get in line.”

“You seen him?”

“Ask inside.” He pushes the door open.

The air in the place is thick with smoke and the dull hum of conversation. The room is dimly lit, crowded with tables covered in green felt and stacks of chips.

Men and women hover over games of poker and blackjack, their laughter edged with desperation.

A few heads turn when I walk in, but most people are too focused on their vices to care even if they do recognize me. Real gamblers only fear losses, not death in human form.

I make my way to the bar, my boots heavy against the sticky floor. The bartender eyes me warily as I lean against the counter.

“Jimmy Carlton,” I say. “He been here?”

“Never heard of him.”

I toss the casino chips I found onto the bar. “Want to try again?”

He doesn’t answer, just nods toward the far corner where a group of men sit, their voices loud and slurred. I don’t thank him; I don’t need to.

As I approach, the laughter grows louder. One of the men, a stocky guy with a face like a bulldog, slams his fist on the table and barks out a laugh when he sees me.

“Jesus Christ, does Carlton owe half the damn city?”

The others join in, their laughter grating. I don’t say anything, just stand there, my hands loose at my sides.

Bulldog smirks, leaning back in his chair. “What’s the matter? Lost your tongue?”

The others howl with laughter, emboldened by his bravado. One of them stands, swaying slightly. He’s taller than the others but soft, his gut straining against his shirt.

“Where’s Jimmy Carlton?” I ask, shoving him backward.

“Who’s asking?”

I hold out my card. “That answer your question?”

His eyes flash fear but the alcohol gives him misplaced courage. “This ain’t Peter’s turf. This is Lombardi’s place. You can’t do shit without approval. Your card doesn't scare me.”

“We beg to fucking differ, asshole. You’ve gone white as a sheet, so quit being brave for your boyfriends.”

I glance around the room. They think the odds aren’t in my favor. Three men, all drunk but capable of putting up a fight. A dozen more scattered across the room who might step in if things get messy.

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