Then a colder thought slips in.What if we have to hire a lawyer? My stomach tightens. Lawyers cost money. Real money. Not twenty-five-dollars-a-week money. Not saved allowance money.
We don't have thousands sitting around for stupidity. Pete will handle it. Of course he will. But the idea of him pulling from our savings—of him having to fix this—is enough to sober me for a few moments.
The van slows. Turns. Stops. The doors swing open, and bright fluorescent light spills inside. "Out."
The air outside is colder. Sharper. Real. We climb down one by one, cuffed and blinking, and are ushered toward the entrance of the station. Inside, the smell changes. Coffee. Vomit. Fear. Sour and human.
Most of the women cry louder when we pass the holding cells—filled with real criminals, not housewives. A man with a shaved head and prison tattoos grips the bars and grins when he sees us.
"Well, damn," he drawls. "What'd they do, raid the PTA?"
Laughter erupts from the other side of the corridor.
Another man whistles low. "I'll get arrested more often if this is the lineup."
Annette gasps like she's been slapped. Lynn starts crying again, full body this time. Josie stares straight ahead, trying to disappear in our midst.
I don't. I take my time. I look. The shaved-head guy's eyes are sharp, calculating. Another man in the back corner watches silently, arms folded, face unreadable. There's heat in their gazes. Curiosity. Amusement. It should disgust me. It doesn't. Itfeels like stepping too close to a bonfire and liking the burn on my skin.
An officer nudges me forward. "Keep moving."
I do. But not before I meet the shaved-head man's eyes one last time. He smirks. And for a reckless, dangerous second, I smirk back.
Around the same time…
I'm winning. Not by luck. That's not how you win at poker. By patience. Massimo sits across from me, unreadable as ever, a glass of Stagg untouched near his right hand. He doesn't drink when he plays seriously. Doesn't blink much either.
The city burns gold behind the penthouse windows, Vegas glitters like it owes him rent. It does. Two seats down from him sits Alessio, grinning like a shark, already half certain he's bluffing someone. Damiano lounges to my left, deceptively relaxed, but his eyes miss nothing. Enzo, who is sitting on my right, is staring at his cards like the faces might change if he does it long and hard enough. The five of us are the kings of Vegas.
Four capos.
One Don. Massimo.
Massimo, Enzo, and I were born into this life. Raised in it. Groomed for it. Violence isn't a phase for us; it's infrastructure. Alessio and Damiano entered it later, but they are no less committed.
The other men at the table are friends. Associates. Trusted enough. But this—the five of us—this is the core.
The pot is heavy. I have the read. Two more rounds, and I strip Alessio clean. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it.
Damiano smirks. "Scared?"
"Focused," I correct.
Massimo's gaze flicks up once. He doesn't ask questions. If it matters, I'll answer it. If it doesn't, it dies on its own. The phone vibrates again. And again.
Alessio raises a brow. "Either she's desperate, or someone's dying."
I don't have ashe. Not just one, anyway, and I know better than to give out my number. I look at the phone and irritation threads under my skin. Shit, there goes my full house.
"Back in a minute." I fold the cards on the table.
Massimo nods once. Permission granted. I step onto the balcony, the noise from the table now muffled behind glass, and answer the call.
"You have a collect call from an inmate at the Clark County Detention Center. This call is from Ezara Loera. To accept, press one."
Ezara. Fucker. I almost hang up, but as always, I press one. He sounds wrecked. Again.
"They picked me up," he whines. "Possession. Public disturbance."
