More people turn their heads.
He leans in close to me so he can whisper in my ear, and I shudder when his hot breath hits me.
“I do not want to hear another sound come out of your filthy fucking mouth, do you understand me?” I swallow and nod. He pulls back and curls his lip, his nose scrunched like he’s smelled something foul. “And take your sunglasses off, for chrissake.”
He faces forward and goes back to pretending I don’t exist. I bite my lip and take off my sunglasses, my eyes filling up with fresh tears for the prying eyes of onlookers to see. I rest the glasses in my lap and slouch in the pew.
I don’t pay much attention to the priest, but with the way Paolo and my father are focused on him, you’d think they were devout Catholics. They’re not. Just devout criminals.
A few pews ahead of me, Nikita, the god of our own crime organization, or not really mine, but my dad’s, sits. Settimo’s description of Syrus could’ve been the same one for Nikita, except they call him Pakhan instead of Don. Two worlds, same people.
He turns his head, as if sensing me staring at him, and I dart my eyes away. I chance a look at him a few seconds later and freeze when our eyes meet. His lips lift into a smirk, and he holds my stare for a moment before facing forward.
I can’t breathe.
I lower my gaze to my lap and close my eyes, trying to pretend I’m somewhere else. I’d click my heels together if I thought it’d actually transport me to Kansas. It’s a little pathetic, but it works. My heartbeat slows, and my lungs pull in air.
The priest introduces the eldest son of Syrus, who I’m guessing is the new don. I open my eyes and raise my head, curiosity getting the best of me.
My lips part and eyes widen when Settimo takes the steps onto the platform. There’s no trace of the solemn or even the lighthearted man I met merely an hour ago. The one whose semen I wiped off my thighs.
Settimo’s spine is straight, his shoulders are squared, his head is held high. He holds a confidence in his walk that screams authority, and you’d never know what he was feeling right now.
It isn’t him.
Itcan’tbe him.
I turn to Dad. “Who is that?”
Before my dad even has a chance to scold me, Paolo grips my hair at the back of my head and yanks me to face forward. I gasp but hold in my protests.
Settimo steps in front of the microphone, and his eyes scan the crowd. I swear our eyes meet, but his don’t linger. They glide over me like I’m anyone else here, just another poor soul with an obligation to attend this funeral, and I guess that’s all I am to him. I told him so.
Paolo lets go of my scalp, but I’m sure he’s far from through with me. My dad doesn’t answer my question, but I don’t need him to. I know the answer. The man on stage, the one who took my virginity, the apparent son of Syrus Gruco…
He’s the new don.
3
SETTIMO
Pocket threes.
Such a conflicting hand. Best case scenario, a three comes up on the table. Three of a kind, that’s a good chance of winning. It’s easy to draw people into a bet that way, too.
Worst case scenario, any card higher lands on the table, someone has a pair, and I’m stuck with shitty cards that won’t even give me a flush draw.
Blade throws two chips in the middle of the table. Eyes move to me when it’s my turn.
I purse my lips and consider the call. I don’t like the hand. It’s a risk that relies too much on luck, and despite what amateurs think, poker isn’t about luck.
I fold, toss my cards on the table, and wait for the hand to play out.
Cigar smoke is heavy enough in the room that it stings my eyes, but I enjoy the smell. This is my favorite poker joint, highly exclusive, only one table, and high stakes. Ten thousand dollar buy-in. Invitation only. The only staff here are a waitress who doubles as a bartender, a guy running the money, a lady dealer with a deep V blouse expertly designed to bring in the tips, and a security guard outside the door.
Five other people are in the room, myself and four other players. Blade, Luca, Armani—yes, like the suit—and Paolo.
My fingers graze my glass, and I draw circles in the condensation. I’ve had enough brandy for tonight. Today. The week. I’ve been drinking too much, and I’m pretty sure others around me have noticed. They don’t say anything, but I can see the judgement in their eyes. Or maybe it’s all in my head.