Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 62590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62590 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
I look around.
A little sound comes from under the bed and a tiny, fluffy black and white kitten emerges, stretching and trotting toward me, already purring.
“Oh my God,” I squeal, dropping to my knees to catch the little thing.
A second one emerges from the bed. I laugh. “Another one! How many are there?”
“Just the two, cara. Do you like them?”
I scoop them both up and hold them against my chest, rubbing my face in their soft fur. One is black with a white nose and paws, the second is white with black on its back, tail and ears. “They’re adorable.” I rush back into the living room. “I can’t believe you bought me kittens.”
He smiles indulgently. “They’re almost as cute as you are. But not quite.”
I walk around the sofa and drop into his lap, nuzzling into him as I hold the purring kittens.
“What will you name them?”
“Hmm. Oreo? No–I’ve got it! This one is Cookies” –I hold up the black one– “and this one is Cream.” I kiss the white one.
“Love it.”
He bought me kittens. It isn’t a big gift. Or showy. But so thoughtful. He listens to me. He heard when I said I’ve always wanted a cat. He paid attention.
If I could purr, I would. “Thank you, Carlo.” The words I love you rise to my lips, but I bite them back in time.
Crap, I can’t be falling in love. This is just sex. Just. Sex. Except it isn’t. It’s so much more than sex. Hell, it’s more than most people’s marriages.
Carlo is my keeper, my master. And that scares the hell out of me because I want this forever, and I heard what Carlo said at my parents’ house.
He doesn’t do relationships.
Chapter Twelve
Carlo
The warehouse for Friday’s game sits near the docks, an old meat-packing plant in the twenties, now a chop-shop for stolen vehicles. The space has been transformed, as usual, with the addition of Christmas lights twinkling from the rafters—Sonny’s idea.
The Russian shows up smelling of vodka and sex. His designer shirt is wrinkled as if he slept or fucked in it.
I don’t usually get into my customers’ business, but finding out the guy is a sex trafficker got under my skin. I suppose I should’ve known. The Russian mafiya run the majority of the drug business in New Jersey, particularly the ecstasy trade, but there have been rumors of sex slaves. While I have no problem with prostitution, slavery is something altogether different. You don’t force women to have sex. Not unless It’s pre-negotiated, and they like that sort of thing, of course—and I’ve had a few of those. No, the idea of women or girls being kidnapped and sold into sexual slavery makes my blood boil. It makes me want to put a cap in the Russian bastard’s cruel face.
So I wouldn’t mind helping the undercover detective with his investigation. But I can’t let him into my game. If word got out a cop sat at my table, I’d lose every customer I have, not to mention all my street cred. No, I won’t be the way Detective Bailey gets an introduction to Alexei, but I’ll keep my eyes and ears open to see if another opportunity arises.
Sonny takes the guy’s money and pushes a pile of chips over to him. Only five players showed up tonight—the Russian and his cohort, two Wall Street businessmen and the Cuban. The low turnout doesn’t bother me. Sometimes more money is to be had with small games, anyway. Guys feel luckier, are less likely to fold.
We give it another five minutes, and then I signal to Sonny to start dealing. I don’t play myself, just observe, along with Vince. Using four decks to prevent any card counting, Sonny deals the first hand. One of the Wall Street guys takes the pot. The Russian takes the next hand. Then the Wall Street again. By the end of the night, the Russian has been cleaned out of chips. He turns to me. “Spot me another three thousand. You know I’m good for it.”
Spotting money and collecting with interest is an easy gig, and one the Family has been involved with for as long as there’s been organized crime. But collecting from another mobster, particularly a Russian, could be problematic. Maybe I just want to see the guy lose again, or maybe I want him beholden, but for whatever reason, against my better judgement, I nod at Sonny, who pushes the chips across the table.
And of course, as always happens when a man is desperate and pushed beyond his means, Alexei loses it all in the very next round.
He shoves back from the table, his pale face flushed.
When he starts to stalk out without a word, I call him back, my tone cool and professional. “We need to discuss the terms of repayment, Mr. Kaloshov.” I go extra polite, not trusting the man’s rage.