Page 36 of Little Bird (Advantage Play 3)

With a snap of Kingston’s fingers, I stalk closer and put my gun to Burlone’s head, ensuring he doesn’t move. Damn, it feels good. Lifting his hand, Kingston covers his girlfriend’s as it rests on his shoulder. The touch is intimate, proving his feelings for her. When Burlone sees it, he practically vibrates with anger while I vibrate with guilt for beating the shit out of her two weeks ago.

“Hey, Wild Card,” Kingston murmurs. “Can you excuse me for a minute?”

She smiles nervously, then takes a slow step back and lets him scoot out of his chair. Rounding the table, Kingston rests his hip against the black felt top of the poker table and towers over Burlone. Every single person watches his movements with rapt attention, and if Kingston were anyone else, I’m certain he’d crumble from the pressure.

“Do you know what we do to traitors, Burlone?”

“I’m not a fucking traitor, Kingston,” Burlone spits. I press the barrel of the gun harder into his temple to remind him of his place.

“Well, let’s see what our fellow associates have to say then, shall we?” Kingston looks around the table. “Gentlemen? If you think this man deserves to die a slow and painful death, raise your hand. If you don’t, then I’ll let him go, you’ll pay for your women, and we’ll play the tournament as if this never happened.”

I don’t move a muscle as I look around the room to see if the sorry sacks of shit have bought our lie. Slowly, one after another, hands are raised into the air.

All except one.

Fucking Russo. I shouldn’t be surprised. Out of everyone here, he’s always had the closest relationship with Burlone. They’ve never had a problem seeing eye to eye on things, and if anyone were ever to replace Burlone, it’d be him.

“There a problem, Mr. Russo?” Kingston asks with a bored expression.

“I’ve seen your evidence,” he begins. “I’ve seen the official FBI letterhead with his picture on it. But I know Burlone, and I’m having a hard time believing what you’ve shown me. I think you’ll need to give me a bit more proof before I can condemn someone I once considered a friend to a traitorous death.”

I open my mouth to interject when a feminine voice distracts me.

“Burlone?”

All heads swivel in the same direction where the other passion fruit, Sei’s particular favorite, squares her shoulders. “Do you know what the FBI does to traitors?”

A ghost of a smile graces my lips before I cover it with indifference as the room goes deathly silent.

Good girl, I think to myself. Throw him to the wolves. Watch him burn for what he did to you. What he did to all of you.

Glaring at Burlone, she continues, “We toss them back to their own kind, letting them fend for themselves.”

Burlone shifts in his seat before gritting out, “What the fuck are you talking about, bitch? Shut your filthy mouth before I make you.”

“Shhh,” she tsks as if she were talking to a toddler. The lifeless girl from the car has been replaced with a confident woman who oozes disgust from every pore on her porcelain complexion. My chest swells with pride.

“I’m an undercover agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and we had a deal. As soon as you found a buyer for me, and the transaction went through, we’d storm the castle, throw your friends in jail, and you’d be off the hook. However, there was one condition I had. Do you remember what it was?”

Burlone opens his mouth to answer, but I slam the butt of my handgun into the back of his head, making his neck snap forward and his chin drop to his chest. In a daze, he shakes his head, so the girl answers for him.

“You guaranteed my protection. You told me I wouldn’t be touched. But I was…countless times. And now, your associates know the truth. You’re a traitor, and I hope they make you pay for it slowly and in the most painful way possible.”

Burlone sputters, “I-if you were an FBI agent, why would you out yourself in a room full of mafia bosses?”

She shrugs. “I’m dead, anyway. Might as well take one asshole who’s a liar down with me for what he did. Mr. Russo, you said you wanted proof. Now, you have it. He’s a traitor who was plotting against all of you with my team to save his own skin. If I weren’t guaranteed to be dead by the end of this conversation, I’d give you physical evidence as a nice little cherry on top. But for now, you’ll have to take my word for it.”

The room floods with questions from everyone, buzzing at a pitch that is almost unrecognizable until Mr. Russo straightens his tie then turns to Kingston. “And now, you have my vote. Gut the poor bastard. And she’s right. Make it slow. Make it hurt. Make him pay for being a rat.”

“With pleasure.” Kingston smiles. “Unfortunately, my utility bag is at home, and we don’t know how long we have until the Feds storm the castle, as the undercover agent so eloquently stated, so I think we’ll be going. Dex?”

“Yeah?” I answer.

“I’m going to need you to escort her to my car too.” He tilts his head toward the girl who saved the day. The order seems to put the rest of the room at ease with the promise of her demise. In reality, he won’t be touching a hair on her head. Not after everything she just did for us. Without her, Mr. Russo wouldn’t have been swayed, and we’d all be dead.

“Done.” Slamming the gun against Burlone’s head with more force than the previous time, his body slumps in his chair. Satisfied he won’t be waking up anytime soon, I reach into my suit pocket and pull out a set of zip ties before placing them around Burlone’s slackened wrists and ankles. I turn to the pseudo-FBI girl, wishing I’d bothered to ask her name before now, and try to keep up the ruse by asking, “Do you want to do this the easy way or the hard way?”

With tears in her eyes, she whispers, “I’m done fighting. It never did me much good, anyway.”

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