Page 1 of Queen of Blades

1

Paul Ricci

Cuttingtheengineonthe black BMW 7 series, Paul sat back in the luscious onyx interior, staring at the painted windows of the laundromat. Ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth turned up into a half smile as he studied the blue-and-white cartoon bubbles painted onto the large window. In just over a decade, the family business had expanded exponentially. The tiny illegal casino in the basement of Laundry Land had really springboarded them—legitimized their family.

It proved they were more than a bunch of thugs running around collecting debts, breaking legs, and solving the problems of other, larger syndicates. They had grown and established themselves asthepowerhouse in Oklahoma, second in earning power only to the Cosa Nostra.

Paul couldn’t be more proud of the work they’d done.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped his fingers around the handle, pulled it, and opened the door. Exiting the vehicle, he mentally prepared himself for a “friendly” card game with the heads of the other organizations in the area.

As he buttoned the jacket of his navy Huntsman suit, he surveyed the barren parking lot. Aside from the silver Honda minivan with the red front fender, his was the only car. Smart. It would definitely be suspicious to have a slew of luxury vehicles parked there.

He wasn’t the first one to arrive. He never was. Most of the time, it was completely accidental, but not tonight. He’d intentionally shown up half an hour late. The rest of his family were early—as the hosts, they had to be, but not him.

Paul wasn’t the head of their syndicate. One day, maybe, but not now. That was his father, Joseph Ricci. He wasn’t even the second-in-command. Nope, that responsibility belonged to his uncle, Michael Kirk. Paul, his brother, Eddie, and his cousins, Sam and Mickey were what the Italian Mafia would refer to as underbosses. They had their own little niches to run within their organization. They worked together like a well-oiled machine to make money—a lot of it.

Pulling the front door of the laundromat open caused a bell to chime above his head. As he entered the establishment, his gaze swept over the space. Not much had changed in twelve years. The old dryers lined the walls with the washers in a row down the center. Plastic chairs from the 1980s faced the inside of the large room. To his left was a wood-paneled counter topped with green tiles.

Rotating his shoulder, he recalled the reason they had to remodel the counter years ago. No one forgot the first time they were shot. Especially considering the circumstances he’d been in. He supposed it was a rite of passage for those in his line of work. At least it was an amusing story, in retrospect, of course. In the moment, taking a bullet from Harper’s ex-boyfriend after getting caught screwing her—yeah, that wasn’t funny. Now, though, he could look back at the ridiculousness of it and laugh. It’d been a through and through, but he was still stiff. Paul always knew when it was about to rain—his shoulder throbbed.

As he strolled down memory lane, he frowned at the sight of the young, probably high-school-aged, blond behind the counter scrolling on her phone. He couldn’t explain why, but he’d half expected to see the tattooed brunette who hadn’t graced their establishment in twelve years and had been the reason he took that bullet.

Shaking his head, he disregarded the thought and shifted his focus to the matter at hand. Hewaslate, after all. With confident strides, he made his way toward the back room and down to the basement with no acknowledgment from the girl who worked for them. As he descended the stairs, the faint jingle jangle and bells of the slot machines grew louder.

They’d crammed a lot into that space. Poker tables, craps, roulette, and roughly two dozen slot machines. It drew in quite the crowd. Today was no different. Frat boys crowded around the craps table, hooting and hollering. A mixture of blue-haired old biddies and degenerate alcoholics sat on stools in front of the video one-armed bandits. Those slot machines were the best moneymakers they had. The roulette wheel hosted a morose-looking man in his forties and two soccer mom lookalikes.

Business was booming. This had earned them the respect and business of the Italians, Russians, Japanese, Irish, and even the volatile Colombians. Paul liked to think of the others as disorganized organized crime. Their formal hierarchies had to do with family, which made them quite messy, sometimes promoting the most inept among them to positions of authority they didn’t deserve or weren’t equipped to handle.

That wasn’t the case with the Ricci family. While, yes, they were blood related, rising in the ranks had nothing to do with those familial relations. It had to do with skill, which was why their portfolio was quite diverse.

After a quick nod to the bulky bearlike man at the door, Paul entered the farthest back of smoky back rooms. To his right was a small bar containing only the most expensive of liquors and his uncle Michael chatting with the tender. Around a large poker table sat the heads of all the criminal enterprises in Oklahoma for their quarterly meeting. Mentally, Paul took attendance as he made his way toward the bar to mingle with the other soldiers. No one came alone.

Haruto Takahashi, the leader of Oklahoma’s Yakuza, with his silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a face full of wisdom creases, sat beside Joseph, chuckling as he tossed chips into the center of the table. Haruto worked closely with Eddie, producing adult films, considering Eddie dabbled in prostitution for the family.

Not in the sleazy human trafficking way, like the Russians. All Eddie’s women were willing participants. While they were criminals, Paul and his family had standards andsomewhatof a moral code. There were some lines they wouldn’t cross. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t do business with the head of the Russian crime syndicate, Boris Sidorov, though. Boris and Sam relied on each other in getting the law to the look the other way. Which was why Sam kept close to Boris at the table.

Between Boris and Sam sat Niall Doherty, tossing his cards down and cursing. The Irishman was everyone’s best friend. He had the market cornered in Oklahoma when it came to arms. No one got anything without Niall’s approval. He was a good friend to have.

Then again, some would argue that Sebastián Rojas, the leader of the Colombians, was the best acquaintance there was. The jovial, dark-haired man always wore a smile, cracked jokes, and brought party favors. His specialty was imports. Oklahoma, as the landlocked state they were, didn’t exactly have ports, but somehow Sebastián made it work, and he always had the best supply.

Sitting with his back to Paul was the most important man of the evening, Dario Bianchi. The rotund Sicilian with thinning hair was the be-all and end-all of crime in Oklahoma. No one made a move without his permission. The Cosa Nostra may have faded out of the media spotlight with the conviction of John Gotti in New York back in the nineties, but they were alive and well, and running things a lot more quietly andsuccessfullythese days.

“So nice of you to show up,” quipped Uncle Michael as Paul approached.

Lifting a lone shoulder in a half shrug, Paul smirked. “What can I say? I enjoy beingfashionablylate.” Taking a spot beside his uncle, Paul rested an elbow on the bar top and turned to focus on the game. “I see my tardiness hindered nothing.”

After Michael took a sip of his drink, he smacked his lips. “Nah. Just the usual ass-kissing for Bianchi.”

Shifting his gaze, Paul made eye contact with the bartender, Jon, a longtime dealer/pit boss for the casino, who was Sam’s on-again, off-again love interest. Only the people closest to the Dixie Mafia leadership were permitted into that very private back room.

Jon nodded, no words spoken. He knew what Paul wanted and grabbed the glass, then quickly went to work, diluting Cutty Sark scotch whiskey with water before he slid the beverage over to Paul and offered a knowing wink.

“Have they gotten into new business yet?” Paul asked as he brought his drink to his lips.

Michael shook his head. “No, just old. Rehashed agreements, alliances, and whatnot. Everything seems to be going well.”

As he rolled the mellow, oaky flavor in his mouth before he swallowed, Paul returned his attention to the powerful men playing poker. They ran Oklahoma. He marveled at how fortunate his family were to have a seat at that table. They’d worked hard for it.

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