Either way, I’m disappointed in myself for it. I shouldn’t be hung up over my father’s death. I don’t have time for it, and a don isn’t supposed to have that kind of vulnerability. It’s weakness.
Plus, it isn’t as if he was a good father. He raised me up to be a replica of him, putting down every sense of individuality I might have had. He showed no warmth, no love, and certainly no approval. It wasn’t until the last couple of years since I took over the majority of his duties that he started to respect me.
Another reason I shouldn’t be so…mopey. I knew he would die. He was old. Sick. I didn’t expect him to go out in a blaze of glory like he did, but I knew he’d be dead soon none-the-less. Not much has changed in my life. I do the same job I did before, only now people are a little more wary of me. Amazing what a simple title change can do.
I turn my head and meet the waitress’s eyes, and she walks to the bar to get me another drink without me needing to raise a hand. She brings me a fresh glass, and I rest it on the table. I study it before taking a swig.
“Settimo?”
I lower my glass and face Blade. His eyebrows are raised, and he flicks his gaze between me and the table.
Shit, they’ve already dealt a new hand. I set my glass down, and it rattles when I don’t set it down flat. It nearly spills, but I catch it in time to steady it. I pick up my new hand, my movements slow, and focus my blurring vision on the cards.
An ace and a ten. Both spades. This, I like.
I raise two hundred. Not enough to scare anyone off, but enough to throw a line in the water.
Paolo smiles as he calls, and I have a hard time not scrunching my face. I didn’t think much of him before a week ago, but tonight I can’t fucking stand him. Every time he smiles while he rakes in a pot, I want to knock his teeth out.
They go on talking, blowing smoke into the air and laughing at something probably not nearly as funny without alcohol in their systems, but I can’t take my eyes off the little shit.
The dealer waits until Blade calls and then deals the flop.
Ace. Two. Five.
Not exactly a sure-win hand, but it’ll do.
“So, Paolo,” I say, knocking my knuckles on the table to indicate I check. “I heard you’re getting married.”
His smile falls. I interrupted something he was saying to Luca, but now he turns his head toward me. “Where’d you hear that?”
I shrug. “Can’t remember. Was she the saucy little thing sitting next to you at the funeral? Or was that someone else?”
“Oh, right, I saw her too,” Luca chimes in. “She showed up late.”
Paolo flinches. The dealer pauses showing the next card. She lays it down gently, as if she’s trying not to disturb this oh-so-delicate conversation. Syrus Gruco’s death is not to be taken lightly.
“That was her,” he says.
I nod. “Pretty.”
Massive understatement. Alex is gorgeous. Full, pouty lips, light brown hair with natural blonde highlights only the young can possess. Almond-shaped, hazel eyes, an hourglass figure with curves I regret not exploring. She’s a knockout, and him underplaying it makes me want to punch his teeth in more. But then again, it’d be worse if he knew her worth.
“Sure.”
“Not your type?” I ask, stacking chips in front of me as a bet. Five thousand. It’s an overambitious bet and certainly not a smart one, but I feel the need to prove my dick is bigger. Paolo calls and the others fold.
“My father picked her out. He thinks it’s time for me to marry.”
What, before you come out of the closet?
I’m not homophobic. Love who you love, be who you are, all that good stuff. But I suspect Leo Romano doesn’t feel the same, and this arranged marriage ordeal is because of it. Rumor has it, Paolo has aspecial interestin one of Leo’s bodyguards. Or, did. He’s dead now. Hence the rumor.
The dealer flips over the last card. It’s another ace, giving me three of a kind.
I rasp my knuckles on the table, checking as if I didn’t hit whatever I was counting on. Paolo bites and begins stacking chips for his bet.
“Makes sense,” I say while he counts. “I mean, what are you? Thirty?”