Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

It’s almost a week since I saw Simone. I’m on edge, craving her like a substance I can’t get out of my system.

She texts me that her parents have been suspicious—asking questions every time she tries to leave the house.

I text her back,

We should stop sneaking around.

There’s a long pause where I see her start responding, then stop, then start again.

Finally she says,

I know. I hate it, too.

I scowl, typing quickly.

Then tell them about me.

Another long pause. Finally she responds,

I want to. I’m afraid.

I understand her position. I know how important her family is to her. I know she thrives off their approval, their acceptance.

I understand it, because my family is important to me, too. They’re a part of me, as much as my height or the color of my eyes.

For Simone, it’s probably stronger. When you move around all the time, your family is the one constant. They’re the center of your world. I have sympathy for her position.

In fact, I even understand how her parents feel. Simone is a hothouse orchid, rare and beautiful, pruned and protected. She’s been painstakingly raised all this time so she can be the showpiece of her family. Because of her sister’s illness, her parents transferred all their hopes and dreams onto Simone.

Simone was never meant for me. They probably thought they’d pair her up with some Duke or Earl for fuck’s sake. She’s certainly gorgeous enough. Not to mention well-read, well-spoken, and well-mannered.

Then there’s me. The opposite of what they’d want in every way. Simone is a stained-glass window, and I’m the stone gargoyle outside the cathedral.

High-school education. Criminal record. My family’s got money and power, but from all the wrong sources. The Gallo name is as dark as our hair.

None of that will pass unnoticed by Simone’s father. As soon as she tells him about me, he’ll put his people to work, digging up every skeleton I’ve buried—figuratively speaking, I hope. Though it could be done literally, too.

It’s dangerous, putting myself in his crosshairs.

And I plan to do a fuck of a lot more than just draw his attention. I’m going to make myself his enemy—the would-be thief of his baby girl.

I know as well as Simone that Yafeu Solomon won’t accept that. Not for a second.

But there’s no way around it.

Not if I want to be with her for real, forever.

So I pick up my phone and I send my message to her:

No more hiding. I want to meet them.

I wait for her response, my mouth dry and my jaw tense.

Finally, she replies:

I’ll tell them tonight.

I set the phone down, letting out a long sigh.

I hope I’m not making a huge mistake.

Papa tells me to meet him at Stella so we can have dinner with Vincenzo Bianchi, the head of one of the other Italian families. His son got himself in trouble, driving drunk with two sixteen-year-old girls in his car. He went off the road in Calumet Heights, and one of the girls went through the windshield. Bianchi is trying to keep his son out of prison.

“It’s this fuckin’ DA,” Bianchi says, shoveling up a mouthful of ravioli. “He’s on a fuckin’ witch hunt here. My Bosco is a good boy. Never been in trouble once in his life. And just because this is his second DUI—”

Bosco is not a “good boy.” Actually, he’s a piece of shit. Thirty-two years old, making a fucking mess of his father’s businesses, roaring around the city with jailbait in his passenger seat, coked out of his mind. We’d all be better off if the prosecutor locked him up and threw away the key, before Bosco brings down any more heat on the rest of us.

But because Papa is Don, he has to do his best to help Bianchi—whether he deserves it or not.

“I’ve got some pull with the district attorney’s office,” Papa says. “But you have to understand, Vincenzo, he may do some time over this. If we’d been able to get there first—put one of the girls behind the wheel . . . it’s not good that the cops found him in the car. They did the drug test and the breathalyzer . . .”

“Fuck the drug test! Bosco doesn’t do any fuckin’ drugs.”

“Maybe we get some of the evidence to go missing,” Papa says. “There’s always some cop willing to ‘misplace’ the paperwork for a couple grand.”

Papa looks over at me, swirling his wine in his glass.

This is where I’m supposed to chime in with suggestions, or some encouragement for Bianchi. Let him know we’ll help him out with the usual threats, bribes, intimidation of witnesses . . .

I haven’t been paying attention, though. I’m distracted, agitated. Thinking about Simone. Wondering if she told her father about me yet. Maybe she doesn’t want to. Maybe she’s embarrassed of me. My chest burns at that thought—burns with shame and anger.

“What do you think, Dante?” Papa prods me.

“Is the girl dead?” I say abruptly.

“What?” Bianchi says, looking offended.

“The girl that went through the windshield. Is she dead?”

“She’s in a coma,” Bianchi grunts. “I’d pull the plug if it was me. Why keep a fuckin’ vegetable hooked up like that?”

“You should be glad her parents don’t share your opinion. Or Bosco would be looking at a murder charge.”

My father throws me a warning glare.

“Her parents should have kept their daughter at home,” Bianchi sneers. “You should have seen how she was dressed. Like a ten-dollar whore.”

My fists are balled up like two rocks under the table. I want to smash Bianchi right across the jaw. He’s a fucking hypocrite, acting like a father of the year when his own son is worth less than spit on the sidewalk.

This is exactly the kind of dirty work that Simone’s family would most look down on. Right in this moment, I’m exactly what they disdain.

I push away from the table before I say something I’ll regret.

“I’m gonna go find Nero,” I say.

As I stalk away, I hear Papa smoothing things over with Bianchi. “We’ll take care of it, Vincenzo. Don’t worry.”

I head back to the kitchen, where I nod to Zalewski, the Polack who owns the restaurant.

“You going down to the game?” he asks me.

“Is Nero playing?”

He nods.

“I’ll go watch, then.”

I push through the narrow door that looks like it leads to a storage closet. Instead, it gives way to a steep, dark staircase that descends into the bowels of the building.

This is where Zalewski runs his illegal poker game.

It’s not the biggest or the fanciest game in the city, but it’s the one with the most cache. While the ringers and the grinders like to play the bigger games where they’re assured at a least a couple of fish they can strip for chips, only the best of the best play at Zalewski’s game. You win there, and you can win anywhere.

I’m guessing this is what Nero’s been saving his money for, when I give him his cut of the armored truck jobs. He thinks he’s going to take down Siberia, the Russian ringer.

They call him Siberia because he always gets the cooler—the hand that kills your hand, even when you played it perfectly.

Sure enough, when I get down to the dim, smoky table, I see Siberia sitting at one end, flanked by two fellow Bratva, and then Nero sitting opposite with a hefty stack of chips in front of him. The other three players are The Matador, Action Jack, and Maggie the Mouth.

“Hey, Dante!” Maggie shouts, as soon as she sees me. “Where you been, big boy? I haven’t seen you in a month!”

Nero spares me a glance, his gray eyes flashing up at me before he turns them right back at his stack of chips again. I see him counting his stack and Siberia’s, which takes him all of two seconds. My brother is brilliant, much as I hate to admit it. But he’s also reckless and eager to make a name for himself. I don’t like that he’s playing, especially against Siberia, who’s as cold and humorless as his name would suggest.

Siberia looks more like a Viking than a Russian, with a full red beard and a barrel chest. He’s tattooed all the way down to his fingernails.

It looks like he’s got about $15k in front of him, though I can’t count it at a glance like Nero did. Nero has about two-thirds as much—maybe $10,000 in chips, which as far as I know, is about all the money he owns at the moment.

I’d like to grab him by his collar and haul him out of here, but you don’t leave mid-game.

So I just have to watch as the dealer lays out the cards.

Siberia’s on the small blind. He throws in a ten-dollar chip. The Russian on his left folds, then The Matador does the same. Maggie thinks about it a minute, before laying down her cards. Nero opens the betting with a hundred-dollar chip.

Siberia snorts. He’s seen plenty of young and hungry players in his time.

Not wanting to match that aggressive bet, The Matador and the other Russian fold. It’s just Siberia and Nero in the hand now.

Siberia isn’t going to be bullied by any kid. He re-raises to $300. Nero calls.

The dealer lays out the flop: Ace, Ten, Ten.

Nero has position. Siberia fires half the pot—another $300. Nero raises to $1000, taking control of the hand. Siberia calls.

Nero’s betting hard, but I know my brother. I know how aggressive he is, and how much he wants to prove himself. I don’t believe he’s got anything yet. He’s probably chasing a straight.

The turn card is a Six of Diamonds. Unlikely to help either player.

For the first time, Siberia hesitates. He’s probably worried that Nero has a Ten. Which means Siberia must not have one himself—I put him on Ace/King. That would mean he has two pair, which would lose to three of a kind.

Siberia checks, not wanting to bet out of position.

Nero smiles. Thinking he can take the pot down, he bets another thousand.

Siberia grunts and shakes his head. He’s changed his mind—he thinks Nero’s full of shit, and he’s not gonna let him buy the pot. He re-raises to $3k.

Nero’s gotten himself in trouble, I’m sure of it. He doesn’t have that Ten and Siberia knows it.

Nero calls anyway—now there’s almost $9k in the pot.

The river is another dead card—Three of Clubs.

Siberia, trying to control the pot-size, simply checks.

Without a flicker of hesitation, Nero shoves in his entire stack.

The table is dead silent.

Siberia sits and stews, his eyes darting back and forth from the mound of chips to Nero’s calm, triumphant expression. The Russian knows he’s supposed to call. But his pride is at stake—if Nero has a Ten after all, Siberia will look stupid. He’s only into the pot $4300. He can’t bet his whole stack without knowing for sure. Nobody tries to bluff him—they know it’s impossible.

I can see how angry Siberia is, though he doesn’t want to show it. He hates to admit that he wasted all those chips.

After a full two minutes of tanking, he mucks his cards, refusing to show them.

It doesn’t matter. Nero knows exactly what he had.

Nero flips over his own cards: a Jack and a Queen. No Tens in sight.

“Fucking hell!” Maggie shouts.

Nero laughs. “You gave up too easy,” he says to Siberia.

The man’s face turns as red as his beard. His pale blue eyes are bloodshot and bulging. He’s too furious to speak. I don’t know if he’s ever been successfully bluffed before.

Nero doesn’t even have the decency to hide his glee. If anything, he’s trying to make Siberia angrier.

“Beginner’s luck,” Nero says in his most mocking tone.

I want to tell Nero it’s time to go, but leaving right after a hit like that would only make the Russians angrier. I stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my agitation.

Nero stacks his winnings, preparing for the next hand. He refuses to look at me. He knows this is a very bad idea.

I see him glance at Siberia’s stack again. Now Nero has the bigger war chest—$14k to the Russian’s $11k. More importantly, he has Siberia right where he wants him: tilted.

When someone’s on tilt, it doesn’t matter what the next hand is. They’re in. Siberia’s blood is boiling—he wants to battle. He takes a swig out of the bottle of gin next to him and gets ready to play.

The button moves over to Siberia. He has position on Nero. Sure enough, he places a blind bet on the button—a $100 chip on the straddle, before a single card has been dealt. It’s a silent challenge to Nero.

The dealer lays the cards. Everyone else at the table knows Siberia is out for blood. They want to get out of his way—he’s not after them, just Nero. The Russian on the small blind folds, as does The Matador and Maggie the Mouth. Action goes to Nero.

I hold my breath, hoping he’s got nothing and he’ll lay his cards down.

Instead, Nero raises to $500.

“You want to dance with the devil again, boy?” Siberia growls.

“Abso-fuckin-lutely,” Nero says. “As long as you found your courage in the bottom of that bottle, comrade.”

Nobody at the table wants to touch this hand. Action Jack folds, and the other Russian after him.

Siberia and Nero face off.

Siberia hasn’t even looked at his cards yet. He bends up the corners, taking a glance. The red in his face fades just a little. Fuck. He’s got something good, on the button, in position. Sure enough, he smooth calls. He doesn’t want to give away that he’s got a monster hand. He wants to trap Nero into bluffing him again.

And Nero’s in just the right spot to be tricked. Because Siberia’s tilted, and because of his straddle, Nero probably assumes he’s got a shit hand.

The flop comes out Queen, Queen, Ten.

Nero is first to act. Insouciantly, he says, “I’m gonna bet here. I hope it won’t scare you away, Siberia.”

He bets the pot—$1000.

Siberia throws in the $1000 without hesitation.

“Dig your own fuckin’ grave, boy,” he growls.

He thinks Nero is chasing a straight again.

The turn is another King.

I’m watching Siberia’s face as the card comes out. And I think I see the smallest twitch of one red eyebrow. He just made his hand. I’m pretty sure he’s got a full house.

Nero’s so fucking cocky, he’s not even paying attention. He wasn’t looking at Siberia, so he didn’t see the twitch. He’s looking down at his own chips, preparing to bet again. I wish I could shout out for him to stop.

The pot is $3000 now. Nero bets another $2k.

Siberia raises Nero on the turn, just like he did the hand before. This time he won’t be bluffed off for anything. He raises to $5k.

Nero calls, smooth as butter.

Even the dealer looks nervous at the obvious tension in the room. He flips over the river card: Two of Spades. No good to anybody.

Siberia smiles. He’s sure that Nero chased the straight, just like last hand. And he didn’t get it.

Pretending like he did, Nero says, “I’m all-in.”

Siberia grins, showing all of his yellow teeth. He snap calls Nero before the words “all-in” have even left his lips.

Siberia flips over pocket Kings—he’s got the nut boat, Kings over Queens.

Nero lets out a small sigh. Then he turns over pocket Queens. He had Quads from the very beginning.

Siberia stares blankly at the table, like he can’t even comprehend what he’s seeing. The friend on his right mutters, “Etot grebanyy chiter!”

Reality hits. Siberia lets out an inhuman roar. He leaps up, and his two compatriots jump up, too. If they hadn’t been frisked for weapons on their way down, I don’t think the whole Red Army could have prevented them from riddling my brother with bullets. As it is, they look like they want to tear him apart with their bare hands.

Nero sits tense and still, not foolish enough to scoop up his winnings.

“Sit down,” I bark, my voice cutting across the room.

Siberia looks over at me, his shoulders shaking with rage.

“Your brother is a cheater,” he hisses.

“He outplayed you,” I say bluntly. “I watched the whole thing.”

I’ve taken a couple steps closer, so I’m right behind Nero. The other players are rooted to their seats, not wanting to make a sound in case the Russian turns his rage on them. Even Maggie the Mouth keeps her yap shut for once.

“He’s too young to play,” one of the other Bratva spits.

“You didn’t care about that when you took his buy-in,” I say.

“What’s done is done,” the dealer says, raising his hands. “Let’s just pay out and shut down the game for the night.”

It’s the wrong thing to say—he’d be better off offering Siberia another buy-in. Still, with my bulk blocking the doorway, the Russians have to let it go.

Not without one last dig, however.

“Shit play wins today,” Siberia sneers.

Nero narrows his eyes. He doesn’t care if they call him a cheater—but unskilled? That’s too much.

In a thick KGB accent, Nero scoffs, “You want a cookie, fat baby?”

The Bratva rush at him.

I flip the whole table over, flinging it aside like it’s cardboard. Chips scatter in every direction, rolling across the floor. I jump between Nero and the Russians, grabbing the first one and throwing him over onto the upended table.

Behind me, I hear the snick of Nero’s switchblade opening up. Whoever frisked him didn’t do a very good job. Or more accurately, they’d have to use a full-body MRI to find something that Nero wants to keep hidden.

Siberia and the other Russian hesitate.

Footsteps thunder down the stairs and Zalewski bawls out, “Knock it off, all of you!”

He heard the ruckus of the table flipping over, and the Russian flying across the room. Now he’s down in the basement, red-faced and furious.

“No fucking fighting at my game!” he howls. “Get out, all of you!”

“Not without my chips,” Nero says stubbornly.

I’d like to strangle my brother myself at this point.

Instead, I jerk my head at the dealer, to tell him to pick up the chips.

When he’s scooped up what looks like $20k, I say, “Cash him out.”

The dealer looks at Zalewski. He nods curtly.

The dealer opens the lockbox and counts out the bills. He hands them to me, and I stuff them in my pocket.

All the while, the Russians are watching with their pale, furious eyes.

“We’ll meet again across the table,” Siberia says to Nero.

“No you fucking won’t,” I tell him.

And with that, I haul Nero back up the stairs.