Page 350 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

The bartender comes back. “They’re holding a spot for you downstairs.” She nods toward the far right corner of the place. “There is a staircase beyond a black and gold door down that hallway. It will lead you to the private dining area.”

I flash a grin and drop a hundred-dollar bill onto the bar. “Thanks.”

“If you want to come back for a nightcap…” She grins at me. “I get off at two.”

Ah, fuck it. Who needs sleep?

I wink at her and give a small nod.

Patrick grumbles the entire way to the back of the restaurant. “I thought you said no hooking up tonight. And what the hell are we doing at the chef’s table? I didn’t come here to eat! I came here for fucking answers!”

I grab his arm and pull him toward me once we’re out of sight. “Thereisno goddamn chef’s table,” I hiss at him. “It’s an underground casino, for fuck’s sake. You have to ask for the chef’s table to get entrance.” I shake my head. “Jesus, Patty.”

He lets out a snort. “Look, I don’t do all of the business-y shit for my family. I’m a fixer, not a fucking secretary.”

“Well, if you wanna save your ass and your family’s livelihood from one of Conor’s fuck-ups, you’d better start paying attention. Take some notes, bro.” I pull open the black and gold door and step onto the landing, the din of voices drifting up from the lower level.

I usually work alone, so having Patrick dragging behind me is like having a ball and chain clanging against the floor announcing my arrival.

It’s hard to be invisible when you have a six-foot-six, blue-eyed blond guy who looks like a young Brad Pitt bringing up the rear.

I square my shoulders and walk down the stairs. Wall sconces line the hallway, giving off a golden glow to the surrounding deep burgundy décor. The floors are black marble, our shoes clicking along the shiny polished surface as we approach the main room.

“I was able to get my hands on a floor plan of the place,” I hiss over my shoulder at Patrick. “Vigo should be here tonight. He only shows up one night a week, usually Wednesdays. But my sources tell me he switched things up tonight.”

“So that means he might have switched things up to meet with Conor,” Patrick mutters as we enter the large space. There are dice tables lining the perimeter of the room, blackjack tables in the center. Ornate bars are set up at each corner, and half-naked cocktail waitresses are carrying trays of drinks to the crowds of men in their midst.

“Exactly.” My eyes sweep the entire room, from the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, to every possible exit I can make out. I’m not planning on having to make a fast getaway, but in my line of work, you have to be prepared for anything.

“Hey, did Conor say anything about a?—?”

I don’t even get a chance to finish my question before the barrel of a gun presses into my back, accompanied by a voice that slithers over my skin like a snake. “Don’t fucking move. Don’t fucking speak. Just fuckingwalk.”

A quick glance to my right confirms that Patrick is also being discreetly shoved toward a darkened doorway just outside of the main gaming room. I don’t know who these guys are or what they want with us, but I don’t argue.

I never argue.

I only ever annihilate.

Once we’re out of the view of gamblers, the short, stout guy who stuck his gun into my spine shoves me against a wall, and the other guy throws Patrick right next to me. “So, Mulligan,” one of them says in a thick Russian accent. “Vigo will be very happy to see you here. He expects full repayment on the debt your brother Conor owes.”

“I don’t know anything about a fucking debt,” Patrick grunts, struggling against the guy who has his gun pointed right at his throat. “We came here to play.”

“Nobody just comes here toplay,” the guy in front of me hisses. “You’re here with an agenda, just like everyone else. You know what’s on our agenda? Taking your money and then leaving you for dead.” He narrows his watery blue eyes, his fat face twisted into a grimace. “Nobody fucks with Vigo, do you understand?”

I can’t even start to process all of this shit, but one thing is clear. Conor Mulligan is on Vigo’s hit list. He’s not looking to partner with them. I should have known he’d have never been able to pull off a business arrangement with the Russians. He’s probably up to his eyeballs in debt because he’s a gambling addict.

And now that there’s a debt to pay, someone is gonna have to fork over the cash. These people won’t rest until they get their money, that’s for shit sure.

Conor is a selfish, self-centered prick!

I should find him and put a bullet in his head myself.

Christ, I’d do it very happily, too.

Looks like Vigo and I need to have a little conversation, the kind where he assures me Conor’s dealings won’t blow back on my family and that I don’t put a bullet between his eyes.

And there’s no way I’m gonna get dragged into his lair like fucking cattle going to slaughter. I’m walking in there on my own two feet.

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