Page 25 of Love on the Line

Just like that, they were in business together. He raked in the money over the next few years and picked up a couple of perks along the way. One of the casino dealers was a martial arts teacher, and Devon trained until he earned his fifth-degree black belt. Damned if he’d let anyone ever push him around again.

Another one of Jake’s employees was a computer genius. Devon paid him well to create documentation of home schooling, so he could apply to colleges. No one ever questioned it. Why would they when his SAT scores were near perfect? Devon didn’t give a crap about college, he got in, but only wanted the diploma. His superstar brother had died in the fire at age sixteen, not living long enough to get one. Finally, Devon had beat him at something. He’d carefully rolled up the diploma and stored it next to the other trophies in his special place.

As far as brothers went, blood didn’t matter. Jake was the big brother Devon never had, and always would be. Nothing he wouldn’t do for Jake. When Jake had a heart attack and almost died, Devon ran the casino and kept it operating in the black until Jake could get back to work.

The light turned green, snapping Devon back to attention. When he got home, he picked up the phone and called Jake. “What’s the news, Jake?”

“He’s ready to sell. We got him by the short hairs. He lost a shitload of money last night at my tables, and the sharks are already after him.”

About time. “He agreed to the Rembrandt?”

“Hell, yeah. He woulda agreed to his own mother. Can’t get his hands on the money fast enough. He’s scared shitless.”

“Okay. I got a buyer lined up and ready. Get the painting to my shop, and I’ll take it from there.”

“You got it.”

Devon’s stomach churned. “Hold on. The selling price just went down on that item. Tell him he waited too long. Tell him a third less. We’ll charge the buyer the original price and split the profit.”

Jake whistled. “You’re talking a lot of money, you sure?”

“He’s desperate. He’ll take it. What else is he going to do? Besides, it puts the message out there. People come to us to sell something, they better be ready to deal. We own this market.”

“All right. Your call.” Jake clicked off.

Devon rubbed his hands together. No one messed with him and didn’t pay for it. After pouring scotch over ice, he sat at the kitchen counter and called Paul.

“Hey, Devon.”

“Paulie. Got another shipment going out. There’ll be a wire coming to my account soon. I’ll call you later with the exact amount.” He took another sip of his drink. “This one’s big, so expect a nice cut.”

“Perfect timing. I was thinking of taking the wife on a cruise. Any idea what my take will be?”

“Not yet, but I wouldn’t skimp on the room.” Like Paulie ever would.

“Excellent. Hey, on another subject, how are things going with our bet?”

“Making progress. You better be ready to pay up when the time comes.” Devon sat back and swirled the ice in his glass.

“We’ll see, Devon. We’ll see.”

“Just take care of business, Paulie, and let me worry about our bet.”

“Okay, I’ll be in touch.”

Devon sighed. Another huge payoff. Who knew there were so many rich people out there with serious gambling problems and virtually no available cash?

Some guy racks up gambling debts, gets in trouble with the sharks, and needs cash fast. He’s got a ton of valuable, insured stuff in his house. If he claims a piece is lost or stolen it takes time, which he doesn’t have, and kicks off a massive investigation. So he goes to Jake, who tells Devon to find a black-market buyer. He and Jake split the money. Paul gets a cut for handling the wires and accounts without asking any questions. And the stooge goes back to gambling, setting Devon and Jake up for another score. A win-win for everyone.

Devon frowned and took another drink. The liquid burned a path down his throat. His legitimate front, meet-by-appointment antique shop, needed some attention. The paintings and sculptures were piling up. Such a time-suck finding buyers when the business brought in a mere fraction of the money he made on the black market. It ate the living hell out of him, but was a necessary evil.

The Rembrandt wouldn’t be in the shop for sale, though. No one knew about the room beneath his antique store where he kept the black-market items until they shipped. He didn’t trust anyone with that part of the business.

Or the other secrets hidden there.

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