Page 36 of To Catch A Rook

She stared at me hard, like I was a roll of cellophane wrapping. Apparently, I wasn’t trembling enough in my boots.

“For fuck’s sake, take this seriously!”

I swung my legs back down, rested my elbows on my knees and plastered the most serious face I could muster—one I had practiced in the mirror a time or two.

“Ma,” I crooned gently, “trust me on this one. You’ve built your legacy, and so have I. Give me a few months. I won’t be stuck somewhere for years and then come out empty-handed.”

She bristled at the insinuation, but I couldn’t help slipping the wee barb in there. Years ago, she’d worked a long con that went sideways. Her target went to jail, and she lost out on some serious loot.

To say The Six weren’t happy was like saying I loved a good rail up the arse—understatement of the century. Da was sure they’d strip her of her title and send her packing, but they’d given her a second chance. She’d worked bloody hard to clear her name since then.

To the rest of the world, Ol’ Marcie was in ‘tech’, made millions doing it, and had a wide network of filthy rich contacts all across the state. To The Six, she was one of their lead ‘acquisition agents’, a pretty little title for ‘thieving con artist’, and had built a reputation all over the world for ‘acquiring’ things.

When Da died, I had a choice; take over his spot in the European chapter, or come to America and give it a go. I’d never been to this side of the pond, and the call of adventure was sweet music to my ears.

Jobs in Europe were too … typical. Art, jewels, some king of an ancient dynasty no one cared about. But in America...

Tech moguls. Stock market billions. The land of excess. More deals, more thrills. Ironic I was sent to America for a European goldmine, but life had a funny way of working out, sometimes. When Bellamy handed me Hillary’s picture as my next job, I knew it would be the con of a lifetime. The beautiful, sassy woman would be the ultimate egg to crack. And I was a wicked good cook.

I'd needed a cover reason to come to America for years, and my goddess handed me one - for all my good behaviour, likely.

And cartels? Dime a dozen. Sure, big scary brutes with machine guns weren’t my favorite thing, but I’d be long gone before a cartel baddie could get a hold of me. I hadn’t earned the title ‘Shadow’ by being a slow git.

And if they did? Well, Kellan Carlos wouldn’t be a problem. I had a plan to make sure of it.

Being closer to Ma was another push. She’d visited a few times a year throughout my wee years, but we’d never had abondor anything. With Da gone, I figured it was time to do my duty to the last of the family. At least I could reassure her of this.

“I’m already in her bed, Ma. Trust I know what I’m doing.”

She released a pent-up sigh and shook her head in irritation, but my answer must have satisfied her somewhat, because the fire under her arse disappeared.

“No slip-ups. This could be the gig that makes us; don’t fuck it up for the sake of your dick.”

“I’ll have you know that my dick is a true gentleman,” I lied, moving to make myself a sandwich in the kitchen. “But you don’t need to worry, Ma. Our beautiful Blondie doesn’t suspect a thing.”

I grinned to myself as I perfectly grilled a butty for breakfast. This just mightbe the most fun job yet.

“Fold.”

Mical threw the playing cards onto the poker table in disgust, his bitter sneer pulling at the jagged scar down the side of his face and into his black hairline.

It was a recent wound; a ballsy fucker had sliced a knife through his cheek in a dispute over territory in Cascade Falls. The territory I handed to my brothers six years ago.

I’d made the trek down to their base of operations in Sheldonville, in the jazz club our dead brother had built up as the crux of his empire. They’d done nothing to change it in the years since—green velvet curtains and dark wood surrounded us like we were Al Capone and Lucky Luciano at the height of their heyday.

Fitting, since the building was once used for rum running during Prohibition. Though, the items in the bowels of today’s basement cellar were far more dangerous than pints of country swill alcohol.

“Que Cabron,” Jonah muttered darkly as he threw his cards into the pile in the center of the table.

I laughed and pulled the hundreds of dollars worth of chips toward me. “Jonah, you could have called me. You just lost five hundred for nothing.”

His coal-black eyes stared viciously back at me. “You have pocket aces,” he spat. “Do not bullshit me, brother.”

I grinned and stacked the chips into tidy piles while Mical scrolled through his phone, angry snarl still firmly in place.

My older twin half brothers were opportunistic, sadistic bastards; cheating them at cards was my favorite way to piss them off before a meeting with our father. A way to remind them of the chain of command.

A few rounds of Texas Hold ‘Em was our ritual to cut a bit of tension before Antonio laid out his expectations for his dutiful sons.

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