Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Would you do it? Come back to die?”
“For my nonexistent virgin daughter?”
“For Rosita.”
“Don’t even fucking joke about that, Alexis, you stupid fuck. I’d cut my own heart out of my chest for her. You know that.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Me, too.”
When I hang up the phone, I consider what will happen if Carlo doesn’t come back. How will Aemelia feel to know her own father wouldn’t give up his life for hers? The thought of her having to face that sadness and humiliation makes me sick to my stomach.
What do we have in this life if we let go of our honor and our family?
9
LUCA
HIGH STAKES
Our casino is a place of indulgence, with every detail designed to overwhelm the senses. It hums with temptation, vice, the electric charge of risk. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars, aged whiskey, and the faintest trace of desperation from those who don’t know when to walk away. Neon lights flicker against polished ebony floors, the walls are lined with deep mahogany paneling, offset by decadent gold accents that gleam under the glow of recessed lighting. High above, a ceiling painted midnight blue stretches like an endless sky, tiny fiber-optic lights twinkling like stars.
The tables are sleek, their surfaces inlaid with mother-of-pearl, their edges gilded. The croupiers, masters of the house, move with practiced precision—women in slinky velvet dresses, men in sharply tailored suits that fit like armor. Their smiles are enigmatic, their hands quick and deft as they deal fate with the flick of a wrist.
A murmur of excitement fills the space, the low laughter of high rollers, the quiet gasps of losers who bet too much, the rhythmic clink of chips stacking up in towers or scattering like lost hopes.
This is more than a casino. It’s a battlefield where fortunes are made and broken in the span of a single hand. The house always wins, and tonight, as ever, we rake in more than we pay out.
I stand near the main bar, the scent of top-shelf whiskey and expensive perfume thick in the air, surveying our domain, the beating heart of the Venturi empire. Marco Venturi, my cousin and the casino’s manager, steps up beside me, nursing a lowball glass of bourbon. He doesn’t waste time with pleasantries.
“Enzo Lambretti’s not happy about the video,” he says, voice pitched low so only I can hear.
I lift my glass, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip. “Do I look like I care?” He gulps from his glass. I add, “Is Enzo ever happy?”
Marco snorts, his sharp hazel eyes, the same as our fathers’, and Alexis’, sweep the room. “He’s got reason to be pissed.”
Good. Let him be pissed. He’s not guilty of Carlo’s crimes. They weren’t even part of the same family, but he carries the same name. I tap my fingers against the side of my glass, calculating. If Enzo is reacting like this, it means our message landed. Now, we just need to see what shakes loose.
“I'll send Antonio to him,” I say. “Tell him to see what Enzo knows. And make sure Enzo understands we’re not fucking around. If he steps out of line—”
Marco nods, but before he can respond, a shift in the room’s energy draws both our attention.
Alfonso Mesina strides into the casino, flanked by his brother, his cousin, and three members of his crew. The Mesinas move like they own the place with a swagger that grates my nerves.
“Trouble?” Marco murmurs.
“Maybe.” I watch as they make their way to the VIP lounge.
Alfonso settles into a corner booth, his men fanning out around him, some ordering drinks from a server who quickly attends to them, others scanning the crowd like they’re expecting an ambush. I don’t like it. Not one fucking bit.
Time to find out why they’re here.
I finish my drink and make my way toward them, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket as I go. When I reach their table, Alfonso leans back, draping an arm over the back of the leather booth like he’s settling in for a long conversation.
“Luca Venturi,” he drawls, flashing a too-white grin. “What a pleasure.”
I offer a polite nod, keeping my expression neutral. “Alfonso. You should’ve told me you were coming. Drinks are on the house tonight.”
His brother, Domenico, chuckles as he lifts a glass of whiskey. “Already making good on that offer, Venturi.”
I smirk, waving a hand to the passing waitress. “Another round.”
Alfonso studies me, his dark eyes glittering with something unreadable. “I heard you’ve been busy lately. Something about a certain girl.”
I keep my posture relaxed, but every muscle in my body tenses, ready. “I’ve been busy with a lot of things.”
He chuckles. “Right. But you know the girl I’m talking about. Lambretti’s little bitch.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw, but I don’t let it show. Aemelia may be my captive, but hearing another man talk shit about her makes my blood boil. “And?”