Page 36 of Driftwood Daffodil 2

Me: I’ll be there in fifteen.

* * *

It tookme about fifteen minutes to pull into The Ellipsis–my father’s casino/hotel. The way I was driving, it should’ve only taken ten to reach this side of town, but I made a detour past a certain yellow trailer.

For half a second, I considered cancelling, but I’d probably just end up parked across the street all night again. The last person I wanted to see was Novalee Ford.

Actually, the last person I wanted to see was Romeo. Given he was the underboss, and I now wanted to rip his heart out, avoidance was my best option. Not fratricide, as appealing as that might be. The fact that Romeo was there that night with Atlas pissed me off, but finding out that my father knew about it? … that blew my mind.

Did I know him at all? What else wasn’t I being told?

I pulled open the lobby door and was met with clinks and dings of various slot machines. According to Louisiana state law, eighteen was too young to be in a casino. Not that that mattered to my father or his staff.

All the concierge did when I headed for the elevator was give me a small nod. He knew who I was and wouldn’t dare say a thing. Plus, it wasn’t like there was nothing illegal going on in this place. More than half my family’s fortune consisted of blood money. That much about the rumors floating around town had been right.

But the mob was more than bookies, drugs, girls, and guns. We had legitimate businesses too. Other than The Ellipsis, we owned some breweries, various shipping companies–for obvious reasons–and had our hand in professional sports. Mostly boxing, but Atlee’s dad was dipping his toe in football.

I stepped into the elevator and typed in the code.

The roulette and blackjack tables up here didn’t even touch what was happening in the lower levels. That was where the really shady shit went down. Underground poker games with bets that weren’t always for money, topless women serving drinks, strippers dancing in cages, and then there was the back room. That’s where I assumed I’d find Darry.

Which was confirmed when I sent Darry a text telling him I was here.

Darry: We’re in the back.

When a chime rang out and the doors slid open, I was smacked in the face with a cloud of cigar smoke. I hated that pungent woodsy scent almost as much as I hated cigarette smoke, but for very different reasons. Atlas liked cigars, and I hated the reminder.

One sniff of that odor brought his smile back in my mind. Perhaps that’s why I avoided this place. Not only did it smell like him, but he enjoyed spending time here.

I stepped out of the elevator and surveyed the room.

Servers walked around with their tits hanging out, while people–mostly men–chatted and drank. This place was an FBI agent’s wet dream. There were members of various crime syndicates, dealers, and hitmen all in one place.

At least half of the men down here were wanted for something. Of course, most of them weren’t openly known. Like the man in the back corner, sporting a jean jacket. The law didn’t know his face. He was simply The Devil Of Death.

Preston Whitley had come to our house a couple of times to speak to my father about a ‘job’. That was the only reason I knew who he was. The first time I saw him I was playing with a truck in the corner of my father’s office. He was young – maybe fourteen – and with some guy in a suit. I remember looking in his eyes and wondering if he was the boogeyman.

If he was in town then someone was getting offed. Who, I didn’t know, because no one told me shit.

Sitting at the table to my immediate left were four guys, all whom I recognized as my father’s men. But it was the man seated at the table next to them that made me narrow my eyes. He might be the reason Preston Whitley was in town.

Nikolai Ivanov.

Preston’s baby brother was married to his daughter. That didn’t mean he was here to protect him though. I was pretty sure that man didn’t give a fuck about anyone, including family. I was surprised to find out he had kids of his own. The better question was, what the hell was the head of the Bratva doing in my father’s club?

Russians weren’t typically invited down. My father didn’t trust them. Apparently neither did his head of security.

Fat Ricky was standing by the far wall with arms crossed and eyes locked on Nikolai. I never did understand the nickname. Ricky was a six foot ten wall of solid muscle, with dark hair and an even darker glare. There wasn’t an inch of fat on him. Then again Saul’s nickname was Moe.

I made my way across the room and tipped my head at Ricky, not taking offence when he didn’t break his focus on Nikolai to return my gesture. There was a reason–beyond his massive size–for Ricky being head of security. A fact that was proven when the Russian decided to eyeball me.

Ricky’s hand slid inside his jacket, probably to finger his gun. It was unlikely that Nikolai would try anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry, I suppose. A part of me wanted him to try. I was in the mood to break something. Mainly Romeo’s face. Since that wasn’t an option, I’d happily take the Russian as a substitute.

I strutted across the black tiled floor as Nikolai’s eyes locked on me.

“It’s Giovanni, isn’t it?”

Then again, maybe he would try something.

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