Page 19 of Vicious Vows

Changing the subject, I say, “Any word on the street about what’s going on?” Vic knows how delicate this topic is, how we have to use veiled language and keep things on the down low with the designer around. I just can’t stop doing business while she takes two hours to make her plans for revamping the space.

“Yeah, I heard our friends who own the bookstore aren’t happy about some of the changes in their finances.” Vic rolls his own cigar along the edge of the ash tray, depositing a hefty load of ashes into it. I figured as much. She went out of the gate strong, and though she still insists that there is no way they can actually trace what she’s doing now, or even then, for that matter, they were alerted the day of our gentlemen’s meeting and now they’re on her scent.

“That’s not good.” I tap my own cigar on the ashtray and drop the ashes, then bring it back to my lips and suck on it, filling my mouth with the smokey-sweet flavor.

The designer turns to look at me and grimaces. “You know whatever paint we put on that ceiling is just going to be ruined by those filthy things. Think of what they’re doing to your lungs.” Her scowl rivals my own mother’s, though they’re friends, so I’d expect nothing less. “Your father had a heart attack and died four months ago, Luciano. Don’t you worry it will happen to you?” She approaches my desk with her tablet, typing away as she does.

The woman is younger than me, probably the daughter of one of my mother’s dearest friends for years. Mom used her to renovate all the rooms in her home a few years ago and swears by her eye for fashion and functionality. I just want to remove the red and make it my own. Everything in this place is disgustingly red, perhaps to hide all the blood the carpet and upholstery saw under my father’s regime.

I exhale and puff the smoke into a ring that rises. “Celia, my father died of a heart attack, not lung cancer. And besides, you don’t inhale cigar smoke. You savor it in your mouth, tasting the flavors infused into the tobacco.”

Vic smirks at me, a nasty, sardonic expression that tells me he dislikes this woman. But I promised my mother my men and I would be nice to her. To the rest of the world, this is a legitimate business—which it is, just not the most ethical at times. And Celia doesn’t need to know what goes on behind the scenes.

“Well, it still ruins the paint.” Her eyes draw upward to the ceiling above my desk, then above the red couches that will be removed later this week. “Just look. Ugly yellow stains.”

I don’t tell her, but those ugly yellow stains are the only splash of color in this room that I like. I’ve seen enough red for my lifetime, and those stains speak volumes—like tiny fragments of my father’s life history plastered on the ceiling for everyone to stare at and wonder who he smoked with, who sat across from him, who watched as he dispatched enemies and rebels.

“I like them. Let’s not paint the ceiling at all, and then you don’t have to worry about it.” I smile with my decision and feel my phone inside my pocket vibrating before the ringtone chimes.

“Well, I…” She scoffs, but when I bring my phone to my ear, she gets the point and walks away.

Vic chuckles at me as he sucks on his cigar and pulls his own phone out to entertain himself while I take my call.

“Santoro. Speak,” I say into my phone, holding it to my ear. Making Celia get flustered like that was so entertaining, I didn’t even look at my caller ID, so I’m pleasantly surprised to hear Micah’s voice.

“Luke, man, taking these winnings back is just not a good idea.” I hear her fingers clicking on the keyboard and know she’s working.

I’ve given her a list of accounts to hack and amounts to transfer. I know every one of the sick bastards who thinks they can come into my place and count cards. If someone comes in here and legitimately wins, I cash them out with no problem. Those folks rarely take home more than a thousand dollars, and usually after they’ve dumped several hundred or even thousand into betting.

But these assholes come in here with their sketchy betting scheme and cash out ten or twenty grand each time they’re in here. Everyone knows gambling at a casino is just entertainment. People don’t win amounts like that. Sure, every once in a while, we let a big winner toot their own horn. It’s good for publicity, draws other folks in. But for these guys to do it regularly for weeks now, it’s just proof they’re counting cards, and I won’t put up with it.

“Hello, beautiful.” I’ve made it a point to discuss things with Micah so that she knows if I’m otherwise detained or occupied, she won’t be able to talk shop like normal with me. “I think the list of things I gave you to do is still what I’d like you to do.” I tap my cigar on the ashtray and watch Vic’s face contort as he scrolls his phone. A scowl etches his forehead, and he purses his lips.

“Luke, cut the crap. If we just transfer the exact amount they take from the casino back out to a different account, they’ll know. Even if I route it through fifty other banks first, they’re going to track it to you. We have to be more subtle.” Her fingers click away speedily, and I feel myself being frustrated by her.

She makes a good point, though I’m not sure how they’ll ever be able to prove it comes back to me. It’s my decision to just make it painfully obvious so when they finally connect the dots, they’ll realize I’m not putting up with their bullshit and just stop coming to my house.

“Then just take it in two sessions. What’s wrong with that?” I suck on my cigar, now almost gone. The tobacco is beginning to taste dry from the heat of smoking it for so long, and I’m beginning to grow impatient.

“Because, dumbass, they know how to add. It doesn’t matter if I take twenty-K all at once or if I take it ten-K at a time. It’s still the same amount. They’ll still add it up. I don’t want to be caught.” Now the typing has stopped and she sounds pissed. “It’s bad enough that I have to do your dirty work because you’re incapable. You could at least listen to me. I know what I’m doing.”

“Just do what you’re told, Micah.” I hang up my phone and lock it, then slide it into my pocket and put the cigar out. I don’t like my orders being questioned even if it is by my own wife. “What is it?” I snap, now in a sour mood.

Vic puffs out some smoke and stamps his cigar out too. “Chris needs us in security, says the guys are back.”

Just what I need—more frustration when I’m already in a mood. I rise and follow Vic to the door, and Celia calls after us, “Don’t take too long, fellas. I have questions.”

“Just make this place look like the Taj Mahal or something,” I tell her, waving my hand as we walk out the door.

Moments later, we’re in the security office hovering over the monitors again. Christopher points the men out, a few different ones than before. They’re once again hovering over a blackjack table with several large stacks of chips in front of each of them, probably equaling more than ten grand each. Maybe I’m too picky, but every cent they take comes out of my bottom dollar and I don’t like it.

“So we’ve watched them over the past week. It’s always a different set of guys, always Russian accents. They like table seven the most, but they also frequent table four and table one.” As he speaks, he works at his computer, pulling up the feed for table seven where the men sit on his large screen. “This pair has been here twice this week around this same time Monday and then today. And there have been at least five pairs, all at different times.”

“Five pairs?” Vic asks, squinting at the large monitor hung between several rows of smaller ones. “Isn’t that like fifty grand a day?”

Christopher’s fingers fly over his keyboard as he answers. “Yeah, so that makes a quarter mil this week alone.”

My chest tightens in rage. First, Micah stealing from me and now, these asshats. I fixed my first problem, and whether she likes it or not, she’s going to help me fix this one.

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