Page 43 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“You’re out.”
Whack
“Please, sir?—”
“You had your chance, and you blew it. Don’t show your face aroundhere again.”
The men back off, and I struggle to my feet, clutching my stomach as I turn to walk away.
“Vince?”
I’ve no sooner turned around when I watch in slow motion as Uncle Joseph takes a swing—the barrel of the bat connecting with my left eye socket, sending me flying across the alley.
Chapter
Eighteen
Vince
I shove down those godforsaken memories forcing myself to go through the calculations for the upcoming week. Firing up my laptop, I check the Vegas line, making my own adjustments.
Needing to shift some action in the upcoming New York game, I grab my phone. First up is one of my regulars, but his phone is no longer in service. Pulling out my book, I double-check his number before redialing. Same story.
This was the bettor who was “mistaken” about the fight action. I search the obituaries online, but don’t find my guy.
My fingers drum on my desk as I consider. A bettor doesn’t ghost his bookie unless one of two things happens: he’s in over his head and thinks he can skip out, or he’s found another bookie.
Consulting my book again, I see this guy owes me a little over three grand. Not enough to justify skipping town. That leaves the second option, which has me scratching my head.Everyone knows the Parisi family runs AC, and I run the only illegal action in town. I consider the possibility he went the legal sportsbook avenue; until I remember this man still uses a flip phone.
Debating on how I want to handle this, I decide to wait until next week; if my guy’s a no-show at settle-up, then all bets are off.
Returning home, I toss the pizza box on the kitchen table and walk to the living room. Study materials are scattered about, but no sign of Luna or the tutor. “Luna,” I call.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Sprinting down the hall, I curse, moving the chair from underneath the bathroom door handle. The tutor bursts out of the bathroom, sobbing hysterically.
“Where’s Luna?” I panic, grabbing the woman by the shoulders and giving her a shake.
“That little bitch locked me in the bathroom! I’m calling the police!”
She takes off for the living room, but I grab her by the arm, slamming her body against the wall. “Help!” she screams.
“This was a misunderstanding, right?” I move the barrel of my pistol to her temple.
Eyes wide, she whimpers. “Right.”
“And you’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut, right?”
She gulps. “Right.”
“And if you talk to the cops, you’re dead. You understand that, right?”
“Right,” she whispers.
“All therightanswers. Don’t ever come back.”
She sprints to the living room and grabs her purse, barreling out the door.
