“I do?”
She bobbed her head. “I think they make you happy, whether you see it or not.” After we finished the round of shots, Bella tapped my arm. “Let’s go to Spazio. I need to dance.”
People from all over this area drove to Atlantic City for Spazio. They had the world’s top DJs, top-shelf liquor, and several levels designated by status. It was where the elite came to party. To spend a shit ton of money and get wasted.
We walked through the casino, packed with people gambling at tables. Plumes of smoke floated in the air, making me gag. People made bets. Chips dropped onto the tables, and the drinks flowed. You could always tell who was losing their shirt. They bit their lips, drank too much, and chain-smoked, shifting nervously.
The casino had the main gambling tables and slot machines spread throughout. They had VIP card rooms and a high roller slot area toward the back of the building. My dad had a hard rule about gambling. He got to see the damage it did daily—people begging for markers, desperate to win their money back.
A den of degenerates.
Like junkies needing a fix.
After all of his warnings about gambling and taking too many risks, my father broke his rules. He fucked both of us.
We passed by a few Italian restaurants, a steak house that cost a fortune, a deli, and a pizza shop open late at night for the drunks. They even had a row of high-end shops. All Italian designers, of course. You never had to leave this place if you wanted to stay and gamble your life away.
All by design.
No windows.
No clocks.
No light.
Whenever I stepped into the casino, I lost all sense of time and space—trapped in a perfectly curated box.
When we reached Spazio, Bella tugged on my hand and dragged me to the front of the line. We stopped in front of two bouncers with thick arms. They were checking IDs and putting colored bands on people’s wrists. I could hear the bass pounding from out here, the music beating beneath my heels.
People in line scoffed at us.
“Hey, they’re cutting,” someone shouted.
Other people echoed similar sentiments, but Bella flicked her dark hair over her shoulder and ignored them. She was untouchable. A Mafia princess who did whatever she wanted.
“Bella Parisi,” she said to the light-haired bouncer with arms so thick they looked like tree trunks. “And Ava Vianello. We’re on the VIP list.”
The man lifted an iPad, scrolled his finger down the screen, and nodded. “I have you down as a friend of the family.” Then he raised his hand and gestured for one of the pretty women in skimpy dresses, who rushed over to us. “Can you take Miss Parisi and Miss Vianello to the Lucianos private suite?”
“Ladies,” a pretty blonde girl said with a smile. “Can you please follow me?”
The club had three levels, with women dancing from cages across the ceiling. A fog swept through the air, a mist that made it harder to see. Maybe that was the point.
Drunk people danced, throwing their arms above their heads. People screamed and sang the song—a popular rap song mixed with a techno beat. I clung to Bella’s side as we walked behind the hostess.
She stopped in front of the elevator that we rode to the third floor. When the doors opened, my heart pounded, my skin slick with sweat.
What if they’re here?
A few men stood by the glass-paneled railing, drinking amber liquid from snifters. They were maybe in their early thirties and looked like men Nico would have as friends.
Sweeping my eyes over the space, at least a dozen people gathered in the lounge area on the right side of the floor. There were private rooms hidden behind closed doors at the back. A handful of people drank and smoked at the smaller bar to our left.
My throat tightened with each step.
I didn’t see the Luciano brothers, but that didn’t mean they weren’t here.
The hostess passed the bar and opened a door on the far wall with a keycard. A mixture of fear and excitement washed over me as she turned the doorknob. It was like getting a peek under the hood. This was where Nico and his brothers brought their guests.