Page 2 of Grift

No need to kill anybody.

Prove a point? Yes.

Make it clear that running scams, even technically legal ones, at my family’s casino will not be tolerated? Yes.

Be absolutely clear that stealing from the Carneys more than once would mean serious consequences? Yes.

But then I’d taken one look at Harvard with his expensive suit and shit-eating grin, and every intention of self-restraint I had evaporated like breath in the cold January air.

All I can see is way he’d grabbed the card dealer, and the way she’d shrank away from him in fear. He will know terror for his transgressions.

“You counting cards in my casino?” I raise my chin, my neck cracking as I roll my shoulders.

He made three mistakes.

The first is ripping off the Carneys.

The second? Touching a woman without her consent.

The third? The sneer on his face.

I guess maybe he made four mistakes.

The final one – possibly his actual final mistake – is not taking me seriously.

“Fuck yes, Mungo. And I’ll do it again,” he shoots back, even as he’s trying to pull away from the security guards holding onto his arms with iron grips.

“Let him go,” my voice is a deep, bass rumble. I won’t beat a man to death while other people hold him down. Now, when he’s on his own and should be able to defend himself? No promises.

His casual disrespect sends me into the stratosphere. The reality is that his face is more in the wrong place at the right time. His attitude just seals the deal.

I’ve been on the trail of this little shit for weeks, tracking reports that someone is counting cards and ripping us off. My father’s daily tirades that we haven’t caught him yet – despite our best efforts – haven’t helped my mood.

The fact that we tracked him down in weeks, while other casinos took years and didn’t nail him, won’t matter.

“Other people’s failures don’t excuse your lack of results, Patrick. You’re a god damned Carney. Aim higher,” James Carney’s voice echoes in my head.

I’d taken aim, determined to hunt him down through any means necessary. We’d stepped up security, worked with outside specialists, and I’d even hired a PI on the side to see what she could find.

But he’s been a ghost, avoiding the cameras and evading my security team. Then tonight, he got sloppy and lingered a little too long hitting on a beautiful card dealer, and we have the evidence on video. He got handsy and she called for security. I make a note to slip that dealer an extra month’s salary for her troubles.

Nobody hurts a woman. Not on my fucking watch – I’d decided that early on and paid dearly for it. Tonight, though, this piece of shit would pay spades for putting his hands on that woman.

I don’t plan to slide the brass knuckles out of my pocket.

Yet as my fist crashes into his face again and again, I feel nothing. I hear it, the crunching of bone. The metallic smack off bruised skin. The sound of his head and shoulders snapping back against ice and concrete. The sensation of the spray of blood.

“Boss, I think that enough.” My chief of security sounds nervous. My eyes come back into focus and the beaten, bloody mess on the ground beneath me is hardly recognizable as a human being. But he’s breathing. And making a whining sound.

“Get him out of here,” I growl.

Leaning back down over the wheezing man, I wait for his unfocused eyes to rest on my face. “If I ever catch you on Carney property, catch you counting cards or even breathing on what’s mine, next time I won’t stop. Understand?”

Without waiting for an answer, I rise.

Calloway looks at me, fear radiating in the tight lines of his eyes and he fights not to take a step back. But he holds his ground and I respect him for that.

“I know you’ve got to get ready for tonight’s big event. I’ll take care of this boss,” he’s gesturing to the man, already being hauled off into a waiting SUV and to the pool of blood on the ground. “He probably needs an ICU.”

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