Page 56 of Convenient Mafia Vows

She doesn’t react when I leave her in the apartment and head down to the casino, and I realize that the silence is more disturbing than her yelling at me or demanding to come with me the way Olivia would. At least if she yelled at me, I would know what she was thinking. Now, I step out of the elevator wishing for the first time since the Wraith opened that I didn’t have to show my face.

“Mr. Murray.”

Denise Cartwright matches my stride as I march along the plush corridor that leads to the casino. The overhead lights are bright. The temperature is pleasantly warm, not so hot the visitors enter the casino with a sheen of sweat on their forehead, or so cold that their fingers are too cold to handle the chips. The artworkon the walls is subtle. We want visitors to focus on the entrance, we want them to be suitably wowed by the sheer scale of the floor when they step inside that they don’t even remember how they got there.

“A position has come up in the restaurant. Someone walked out yesterday.” Denise is breathless from trying to keep up with me. “How would you feel about me offering the role to Victoria?”

I sense her holding her breath. “That won’t be necessary.” I stop at the entrance, forcing her to stop with me. “Is there anything else?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

I know it makes me sound like an asshole, but I can’t risk anyone knowing about our arrangement. Denise might be easily replaceable, but playing God with people’s lives for no reason isn’t the way I roll. So, I walk into the casino, my straight spine informing her in no uncertain terms that the conversation is over.

The bartender has a drink waiting for me when I arrive at my usual spot at one end of the bar. Brandy on the rocks. It’s a regular night at the casino. Busy. The low hum of voices providing the evening’s soundtrack.

The tables are monitored. If a customer is on an outrageously high winning streak, an alert comes straight through to my phone complete with images of the table and the relevant figures. Tonight, the banker is winning. Which means that I’m winning, although even the brandy tastes sour after the last twenty-four hours.

There’s something in the air though.

You don’t sit in a casino night after night without learning how to read the atmosphere like a sailor tasting the weather. Leaving my drink on the counter, I wander around the floor, acknowledging the regulars with a nod and smiling politely at the women who catch my eye, slowly making my way to the exclusive room.

Ivan Petrov isn’t hard to miss. The space around him is statically charged, his thick black hair standing on end as if he has rubbed it with a balloon. Aside from the almost audible crackle, his voice reaches me before the door has swung closed behind me.

As if sensing my presence, he turns away from the table, leaning to the left to peer beyond me as if he expected me to bring back-up.

My hackles are instantly raised.

“Ivan.”

I force a warm smile and shake his hand which he reciprocates by grabbing my arm and holding on several beats too long. He smells of liquor. But this isn’t what has me on red alert. A drunk I can handle with my eyes shut and both hands tied behind my back; a drunk with a proposition is an altogether different matter.

I take small comfort from the fact that Olivia Dragonetti isn’t with him, but if Terry’s informants were correct, Ivan Petrov knows exactly what went down last night, and who was responsible.

“Where’s your wife?”

He rolls out his bottom lip in a petulant gesture worthy of a spoiled child. Ivan has a chiseled jawline and cheekbones, anddark eyes that shine like wet pebbles, runway looks, but they hide a vicious temper, and a lack of remorse generally associated with serial killers.

“I wanted to meet her for myself, dispel the myths that she bewitched you with some kind of evil potion and has taken to parading you around the Wraith with a collar and chain.” He laughs, a sound without mirth, tips back his head, and drains his glass.

“We’re having a new collar made.” I smile. “If you’re looking for a new fetish, I wholeheartedly recommend trying it.”

He sniffs loudly, twisting his nostrils exaggeratedly.

“What can I get you?” The sooner we get this conversation out of the way, the sooner I can move Ivan on and get back to my wife. The casino has lost its appeal for me tonight.

Ivan checks out his empty glass. “Whisky. Neat.”

I signal the bartender and lead Ivan to my private table in a booth at the far end of the room. The drinks appear on the table before our butts touch the seats.

“I don’t know what went on between you and Olivia,” Ivan begins, “but I half-expected to see images of your wife’s corpse splashed across the tabloids this morning.”

I don’t react. I’ve seen too many mafia wives crushed by power struggles and revenge. It’s the reason why I work seven days a week, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year, so that, when the time comes, I can step away from this life and keep the people I love safe. When a mafia boss falls in love, all bets are off.

“Something must’ve gotten lost in translation.” I play dumb. “I heard there were bigger fish to fry.”

His mouth contorts into a sinister smile. “How are things at the Rinse these days? Seems Ms. Dragonetti has set her sights on bagging herself a well-established casino resort if the rumors are to be believed.”

I sip my drink. “I prefer to trade in facts not rumors.”

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