"Fuck." I run my hand through my hair. "Did anyone get hurt?" I ask, my mind already calculating worst-case scenarios.
"No casualties on our side. That's all I can say."
I turn to see Zoe standing in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet. Her eyes are alert despite being woken from deep sleep.
"I'll be there in two hours," I tell Alessio. "Keep everything contained until then."
"Already working on it." A pause. "I'm sorry, Dam. I know this weekend was important."
I hang up and meet Zoe's questioning gaze. The disappointment washing over me is almost physical.
"We have to go back," I say, crossing to her. "There's an emergency at the casino."
Her face falls momentarily before that steel I love so much returns to her eyes. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that Alessio called instead of handling it." I cup her face gently. "I'm sorry, vita mia."
She leans into my touch. "It's okay. I knew what I signed up for when I married you."
I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"You better," she whispers, attempting a smile. "Now let's get dressed."
My woman. Always stronger than she should have to be.
Click HERE to get your copy of Ruined by Blood and read now Enzo’s Story
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Idrain my whiskey and signal the bartender for another. Saturday nights at the casino mean I'm stuck here playing host while Damiano gets his weekend off with Zoe. Lucky bastard. He's probably wrapped around his wife right now, forgetting the world exists beyond their penthouse walls.
Meanwhile, I'm trapped in this glittering cesspool, schmoozing with degenerates who think money makes them untouchable.
"Mr. Feretti." A nasal voice cuts through my brooding. I turn to find Harold Pemberton, some oil executive with more cash than sense, approaching with his usualsycophantic smile. "Wonderful establishment you have here. The renovations really elevated the ambiance."
"Pemberton." I keep my voice flat, uninterested. The man's been trying to buy his way into our good graces for months, throwing around investment opportunities like confetti. "Enjoying your evening?"
"Immensely. Though I was hoping we might discuss that petroleum transport venture I mentioned last month." He leans closer, whiskey heavy on his breath. "The profit margins are extraordinary."
I crack my knuckles, the sharp pops making him flinch. "Not interested."
His face reddens. "Perhaps if you understood the full scope?—"
"I said no." The words come out deadly quiet. "Walk away, Harold."
He scrambles back like a kicked dog, mumbling apologies as he disappears into the crowd. Good. One less parasite to deal with.
The casino floor pulses with Saturday night energy—slot machines chiming, cards shuffling, champagne glasses clinking. Wealthy fucks celebrating their excess while I babysit their egos. The air reeks of desperation, and bad decisions.
I move through the crowd, nodding at familiar faces, keeping my expression neutral as associates and wannabes try to catch my attention. A senator's wife bats her eyelashes at me from the roulette table. A tech mogul raises his glass in greeting. A pharmaceutical heiress "accidentally" brushes against my arm.
All of them wanting something. Access. Protection. A piece of the Feretti name.
My phone buzzes—a text from Damiano. All good there?
Peachy, I reply. Enjoying your night off.
Thanks for covering. Owe you one.
