Page 9 of The Players

Last time they had a woman over, she’d lasted for two weeks. She had loved Vince and the gifts he showered her with. Just like all their women, she saw Sy as only a sex toy. They were drawn to him because of the danger, and his bad rep. He knew exactly what and who he was—a stubborn S.O.B. set in his ways, just looking for a good fling. He would never settle down. Couldn’t even imagine what being homey would be like. Not in his line of work and definitely not with his fucked-up family as an example.

“You sure about this?” he asked. “’Cause if you’re serious about her, I’d only be dead weight in the end.”

“First of all, you should give yourself more credit. And second, we’ve talked about this. I’m never gonna put a woman through what my mother went through. At least, when she has two protectors, Carmen will always be safe. I know that, should anything happen, you’ll take care of her.”

There was a look in Vince’s eyes he hadn’t seen before. It was somewhere in between pissed-off determination and his badass master look getting a sub to drop to her knees.

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need you to help me break her.”

CHAPTER 3

CARMEN

She had literally hit rock bottom. As Carmen stared at the piece of paper on the bathroom floor, her thoughts went back to the night before. The blackmailer. The club. The dead body that had somehow been a sick tribute to her.

What was she to do? Once again, her life had turned into a nightmare. Someone else knew about her secret, her shame. It not only made her sick to her stomach, but it had her reliving her nightmares.

I’m still paying for my sins…

Someone had killed her blackmailer. That person couldn’t possibly have good intentions toward her. For one, he was a murderer. Even if he had killed Dwight for her, it didn’t make it right. She didn’t feel relieved. At least she knew what Dwight wanted. Well, she could make an educated guess. Money. Or perhaps the two remaining casinos she had left from Franco. Her husband had lost most of the Caruso family business before his death, but she was still stuck with the casinos. Two large, shiny places of fun and games that several families were after.

Another problem she couldn’t deal with right now. She pushed herself up from the floor and splashed some water on her face. Haunted eyes with bags underneath them stared back at her from the foggy mirror.

After her shower, she crashed onto the floor again, uncontrollable shivers racking through her body, forcing her to sit down for a second time. She had left the door closed for too long, turning the bathroom into a sauna. Carmen grabbed a bathrobe and put a towel around her damp curls. She had no idea how long she had been in here. Probably too long. There were a million things she needed to do.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Mrs. Caruso?”

Raul. Franco’s former bodyguard and the only decent human being in his entourage. The man who had set her bones and bandaged her wounds more times than she could remember.

She opened the door and he immediately averted his gaze. The man was in his late forties but had the manners of old. Looking at his deceased boss’s wife in a robe wasn’t considered proper.

“Raul, please don’t call me Mrs. Caruso anymore.” Hearing that name literally made her sick. “I no longer carry that name.”

Never wanted to in the first place.

He nodded, looking relieved. Maybe she wasn’t the only one looking to change things.

A crease appeared between his brows. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

“Just tell me.”

His jaw locked. “Lorenzo Morelli is here.”

Of course. Last week, it had been the Irish, now it was someone from the Italian families. They were after the same thing—the last of Franco’s casinos or, as she called them, her curses. Even after his death, he managed to make her miserable.

“Did you tell him I’m indisposed?”

“I did. I told him to get the fuck out, but he wants to hear your official answer.”

And he wasn’t leaving before hearing it from her mouth. She knew how it worked. “Tell him I’ll be right there. Oh, and Raul? Please be polite to our guest.”

He ground his teeth, but his soft brown eyes told her he’d comply. They both knew she was in no position to make an enemy out of Morelli, just as she couldn’t make one of the Irish. Sadly, she had ended up between them, like a bone two dogs fought over.

She dried her hair and tied it in a bun. Next was her “armor”—a two-piece gray suit consisting of an over-the-knee skirt and blazer. Just to remind him she was a woman, no threat to them in any way, but at the same time businesslike and to show him she wasn’t interested in him. The only thing worse than a mobster after your assets was a mobster after your body.

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