Chapter 1
Trick
I roll into the underground poker game in South Boston around eleven, and here’s a guy who doesn’t belong, waiting like a snake in the grass. Enzo Palermo, the thick-necked son of the late Frank Palermo gives me a onceover with narrow eyes. Everyone on the East Coast thinks I killed Frank Palermo, my ex-boss. Can’t blame them. I’ve killed a lot of people. And Frank and I were like characters inHighlander. In the end, there could be only one.
No one can prove I killed Frank, just ask the police who’ve been trying to for months. Enzo’s not here looking for proof though; he’s here looking for blood. Watching me, he stops stacking his chips. My feet take a pause to give me time to consider, but my brain catches up with itself and tells the feet to get stepping. For me, there’s no backing down. I didn’t choose this life. I was born into it, and, later, it was kill or be killed. So now I’m in it and when trouble comes knocking, I don’t just open the door. I come outside to meet it in the street.
I stroll to the table and drop casually into my spot. The Palermos want to reclaim Coynston, my hometown. But Coins belongs to C Crue now, my crue. Enzo wouldn’t come alone, so his guys are out there in the dark, and I didn’t notice them. Pauly Mangia, the oldest captain in the Palermo organization, would definitely love to put a bullet in the back of my head. Was he on my six as I passed?Sloppy, Trick.
The rest of the guys at the table I can handle with one hand balancing a drink. There’s Gibson, a stockbroker from New York, who never meets a bluff he doesn’t like. He’s here to hemorrhage money and act like a big man. There’s a Boston Irish mob guy by the name of Murphy who hates my guts. That’s mutual as fucking hell, since it’s his brother who sealed my fate. There’s Little Mo who set up the game. Mo looks nervous, as he should. And then there’s an empty chair that’s hopefully for another rich guy trying to hang with bad ones.
I drop my cash on the table, wondering if it’s a coincidence Murphy’s here. Murphy’s brother Hugh was a crony of my old man, until Hugh betrayed him. Jack Murphy looks at me like he knows I’m the reason his brother’s buried in a Boston cemetery.
There’s a dealer. No one I know and looks harmless enough. I’ll keep an eye out. The sound of shoes clicking against stairs causes my eyes to flicker that way. The tread’s wrong for a guy.
My gaze slides to the open door to witness the emergence of a girl who should know better. Laurelyn Reilly’s from my neighborhood in Coynston, and she was a good girl in school. That doesn’t stop her from looking like the devil conjured her up to bring men to their knees. Her body’s wrapped in a beige bandage dress. At first glance, she looks nude, and my cock immediately takes an interest, hardening up like poker’s not the right game to play with her. She’s got the kind of curves you couldn’t take at high speed without heading off a cliff.
Every eye in the room goes to the D cups straining the tight fabric and bouncing above it. This isn’t how she dresses. Unless a whole lot of things have changed.
At Coins High she was a teenage Sporty Spice, playing volleyball and running track. She wore black-framed glasses borrowed from Clark Kent. She usually kept her body under wraps in loose tunic shirts over jeans. The one time I saw her in a dress that suited her was when she was on the homecoming court and wore a blue strapless dress that definitely didn’t have her tits pushed up to her chin.
That homecoming dance was the night she found out her date was a well-practiced deviant. She took off on his ass, leaving the guy—me—to get stoned and mess around with the captain of the cheerleaders. Laurel and I are still not on speaking terms, because why would we be? I went my way, and she went hers, doing the conventional life thing. Which leads me to wonder who sent out the invites to this party? Laurel Reilly’s the girl who convinced me that my dick is welcome to a workout, but my heart’s only good at beating for business, family, and revenge. No one but me knows the lessons I learned from being with Laurel a decade ago, not even her.
My gaze drops to her feet and notes the double C logo that makes them Chanel. I move up her legs, which are as gorgeous as ever. Are the clothes borrowed so she’ll look the part?
She stops next to Gibson. “Could I?” She nods at him and then at the empty chair she wants him to move over to.
“Sure.” He vacates his seat so she can have it, and now she’s next to me.
What’s this about? She’s close enough for me to catch a whiff of a flowery perfume with a sexy undercurrent. Her skin’s a creamy vanilla, which matches her sweet center, one that I was keen to corrupt. I doubt she’d be so anxious to sit next to me if she knew how many times I’d fantasized about stripping her and bending her over a table to mark her pretty ass with a flogger before fucking her in front of an audience of my closest friends.
Laurel leans forward, her breasts straining to spill out of the top of her dress. I’m rooting for them. Then I try to forget about her body while I ask myself two important questions. One, who staked her? Because I doubt she can afford the fifty grand buy-in on her own. And two, why does she want to sit next to me when last I knew, she’s still pissed at me from school?
I study her profile a second, taking in the high ponytail that’s held in place by a wide dark brown barrette that blends with her hair. My inspection stops at the thin gold choker around her neck. Would she wear a collar as easily? Because she would make a very pretty pet. My fingers want to play with the clasp and stroke the bones partly hidden by her hair.
She gives Little Mo a bundle of cash and introduces herself to everyone except me. The other men shoot to their feet and lean across to shake her hand. I don’t stand or say a word. She shouldn’t be here. If she wanted a reunion with me and her intentions were good, she would’ve come to Coins.
After she stacks her chips in front of her, she turns her head and fixes her green eyes on me. I remember those eyes and the way when light shines on them they look like stained glass. Always had a tough time looking away.
She inclines her head in greeting. “Hello, Scott.”
No one calls me Scott, which, of course, she knows.
I don’t answer because I immediately want in on whatever game she’s playing. Is that a bad idea considering how the table’s stacked against me? Hell fucking yes.
The feds are breathing down my neck twenty-four/seven, and they aren’t even trying to hide it anymore, which is a very bad sign. Coins PD is always after my crue. And this card game is nothing short of a funeral march. The last thing I need is to get distracted by pretty breasts, long legs, and stained-glass eyes. But whoever sent Laurel Reilly seems to know exactly where my blind spot is and always has been. Except how could anyone?
“You know this young lady? And you don’t even say hello? Worst fucking manners,” Enzo spits out. He’s about as subtle as a goring bull.
“Why don’t you come sit by me, doll? Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t be ignored.”
She offers him a small smile, which I immediately resent. “Thank you, but the lighting’s better over here.”
That’s bullshit. The track lights are the same on both sides of the table.
“Mo, who’s on the bar?” I ask to mess with them and splash some coolant on my brain.
Little Mo’s eyebrows draw together in surprise. No one starts drinking this early. But if everyone’s putting on a show tonight, I’ll ante up on that score too.
