“Neither will I, brother. Neither will I.”
We each lift our glasses and tip the measures down our throats just as the elevator doors open and Cass and Brando step out. Brando is our youngest brother but he’s the largest of us all. He’s also the moodiest, deadliest Bellucci that ever lived. He moves wordlessly into the room and sits beside me, instantly pulling out his knife.
He’s done this for as long as I can remember. Turned that goddamn knife over and over in his fingers like it’s some kind of soothing device. It’s worse when it catches a source of light. The flashing drives me insane. But I don’t tell him to stop anymore. Did that once. Almost lost a finger.
Cass brings up the rear, his swagger evidence he got lucky in the time between the Fallen Angels announcements and now. If the cocky way he moves isn’t proof enough, then the lipstick on his collar and burgeoning hickie on his neck is.
I swear he treats this club like his own personal playground. I dart him a pissed look, to which he grins, shrugs and fist-bumps Remo.
“Don’t encourage him,” I warn our second eldest.
Remo smirks. “He doesn’tneedencouragement.”
“If you’re gonna make me host at the last minute, you gottaallow me some privileges.” Cass leans back casually and runs a hand through his hair. “Why did you ask me to host anyway? Why couldn’t you do it, like usual?”
Because I wanted to watch her reaction. Because I wanted to get upstairs to the suite before she did so I could watch her face fall when she realized who was waiting for her.
“Thought it would be good to mix things up a little.”
Remo’s gaze cuts to me as he reaches for more whisky.
He knows the truth. They all do, but none of them comment.
The heavy silence, filled only with the sound of pouring whisky, gets to me. I take out a cigarette and light it, watching smoke curl toward the ceiling.
“Is everything set for the Ring?” I ask Cass.
He raps a hand against his thigh, the way he always does when the adrenaline hits. “Yeah. It’s now sealed until the game. No more players.”
Remo drums his fingers on the table. “Who’s in?”
Cass holds a hand up and ticks titles off his fingers. “Cartel liaison, dirty cop, an art collector, an intelligence officer and a rookie.”
“A rookie?” I don’t like the sound of that.
“He’s good for the money and one of the best poker players I’ve ever seen.”
“Does he have anything to move? Any interests?”
Cass lifts a shoulder. “Nope. Just wants to play high stakes. And these are the highest stakes in town.”
I breathe in deeply. I’ve always struggled to relinquish control of our various family businesses, but even though Cass comes off all nonchalant, he’s really fucking good at this. He has the rare ability to threaten someone’s life with just a look, and keep peace in the room all in the same breath.
“What about you?” I turn to Brando.
He doesn’t look up straight away. The knife keeps turning between his fingers, slow and steady, catching the light with every rotation.
“He’s been busy,” Remo says.
“The casinos?” I prompt.
Remo sighs. “Yeah. There’s a syndicate doing the rounds. Calculated losses, big wins. There’s a clear pattern and we’re onto them. Brando had a few words. I don’t think they’ll be trying to play our shops any time soon.”
Cass snorts. “Had a few words? What kinda words?”
The knife stops turning and Brando looks up.
“Barrel. Mouth. Brains. Wall. Those kinda words.”
