Chapter One
CONNOR
The tow-haired frat boy on table three is on a winning streak. With every hand he wins, he gets louder and more obnoxious. If he keeps it up, I will have to get Niall or Paddy up here to sort him out. The lad’s on a hell of a hot streak, but all streaks eventually end. The house always wins. It’s my job to make sure of it.
I’m standing in the middle of the largest room on the top level of Oracle, the strip club here in West Boston run by the Irish, and my cousin, Seamus Fitzpatrick.
It was an empty storage room when I first stood in this space. Now, it’s a proper gambling den. The dark wood-paneled walls are polished and shining, contrasting well with the rich burgundy plush carpet, matching the felt tops of the five gleaming poker tables scattered around the room.
Each oval table seats eight gamblers and a dealer. Padded, striped chairs ring the tables, comfortable enough for a gambler to sit for hours. I know as I’ve sat for many hours around these tables.
Large, lampshade-style chandelier light fixtures hang from the ceiling, illuminating the space. Heavy brocade drapes hang over the windows overlooking the street below. They are always drawn when this room is occupied. There is a car of undercover Vice cops which sits outside twenty-four-seven. We don’t want them catching a glimpse at our occupants.
Seamus suggested installing a bar, but that would encourage hangers-on to stand around. The high rollers, in particular, wouldn’t like that. Instead, I have a bar in one of the smaller rooms and offer table service from the waitresses moving about in their sleek black trousers, crisp white button-down shirts, and black satin vests. The dealers are dressed the same, except they wear black satin ties.
Striding across the room, I nod to a few regulars, tapping one of the frat boy’s table companions on the shoulder.
“A spot has opened up on table one.”
The Russian nods gratefully, gathering his chips and moving to the other side of the room. I sink into his chair, rapping my knuckles on the felt table to get the dealer’s attention.
Ryan nods, dealing me into the game as a pile of chips lands on the table in front of me, courtesy of one of the waitresses.
Because of how cocky he is, it only takes about six hands to significantly deplete the frat boy’s pile of chips. He gets rowdier and angrier the more he loses.
He drinks more too. That’s an amateur move. Alcohol numbs your senses and makes it harder for you to hide your tells. It also makes it harder to read other people’s tells. A drunk mind is a dull mind.
I’ve seen the likes of this frat boy before. Harvard, by the looks of his preppy polo shirt. He’s come to West Boston to slum it with the Irish Mafia.
Lads like him think they’re untouchable because of who their daddy is. Like we give a fuck who their daddies are. Their daddies are more scared of us than we are of them. Especially when Niall gets involved. I’ve yet to see some suited businessman willing to go toe to toe with the Irish Reaper.
It takes another twenty minutes for the frat boy to lose his head. His final hand is a bust. He drops the cards onto the table, spouting curses, and throws his drink in Ryan’s face.
Fucking unacceptable. Our staff is off limits. In an instant, I’m on my feet and around the table, hauling frat boy to his by his throat while his preppy mates all jump up, holding their hands out in front of them yelling, “whoa, whoa, whoa,” like I’m a bucking bronco or some shit. Do they think they’re fucking cowboys or something?
I haul the preppy prick through the door to the small landing at the top of the stairs. We don’t discipline where the tables are. Downstairs, the dull thudding of the music from the VIP room is audible.
Shoving the fucker against the wall, I pin him there with my forearm to his throat, sinking a fist into his gut. He slumps against my arm, gasping for breath. His mates have followed us out, as has a vodka-soaked Ryan.
“Fetch the Reaper,” I growl at Ryan, who disappears instantly.
Frat boy’s eyes widen as he starts gasping out protests. “Please. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown my drink. It won’t happen again.”
He’s damn right. It won’t. They’re barred. I’ll not have anyone in here disrespecting my dealers.
“Are you fucking crazy, man?”
“Let him go. It was a fucking drink. We’re leaving!”
“You can’t just assault people!”
His posse is now making their feelings known. Yet none of them has the balls to try to wrestle me off their friend. Fucking pussies.
Niall comes striding up the stairs within minutes. He will have been down in the VIP room with his wife. Mellie Byrne was one of our bartenders until Niall whisked her off to the courthouse and married her on the spot.
No matter how good she was at her job or how popular with the partons, we can’t have the Reaper’s wife serving drinks for tips. She’s now in charge of the bar staff, liquor orders, the lot.
Sometimes she likes to come in and keep an eye on new hires, which is why she and Niall were downstairs tonight rather than ten minutes away at their apartment.