Chapter 6

6

"Do you want another whiskey, Mr. Sorrentino?" Crystal asks, picking up my empty lowball glass from the table.

"Make it a double, thanks," I respond, still eyeing the players who've turned up at the 708 Club so far for Friday night's game.

A harsh pounding rattles the back door, and Rhodes pushes up from the leather club chair beside me, passing his glass to his girlfriend Crystal on the way to see who the fuck has that level of audacity.

I don't know how Rhodes manages not to break the hands and pluck out the eyes of everyone in this room as Crystal walks around in that slinky burgundy tube dress that barely covers her ass. I'm pretty sure he gets off on watching men flirt with her.

I couldn't do it.

Hell, Wren isn't even mine and I could've broken every last finger of Allen's when I saw him holding her wrist. I heard her hand strike his cheek and couldn't help but check in on her. It had to be the breakroom- if I'd taken her to my office, I'd have had her pinned against the wall and my face buried between her thighs.

The thought alone has my dick thickening behind my zipper. I give it a light squeeze and readjust as I see Rhodes rounding the pool table.

"Boss." He tips his head toward the doorway. "O'Ryan's here. I didn't know what to do, so I put him in your office."

Cazzo.

I surge to my feet. O'Ryan may be on the payroll, but him showing up at a poker night isn't exactly good for business. Rhodes looks conflicted, like he doesn't know if he should follow or stay. So, I make it easy for him.

"Make sure the drinks stay full," I say, clasping his shoulder and leaning towards his ear. "They bet more when they've been drinking. I'll handle O'Ryan."

He nods, his eyes finding Crystal and feet leading him to her side as I slip out of the back room and cross the hall to my office. Thank god Rocco will be back Monday. Not that Rhodes hasn't done well, but Rocco and I are just more...in sync. He can handle one-off situations himself, he's comfortable making judgment calls. I have to stop and remind myself that Rocco has been at this longer; he was born into it, raised for his position as I was for mine.

Rhodes has only been a capo for six months, and with our family for just a year now. He's young, and he's still learning, especially how things are done in Chicago but he's loyal and determined to prove himself. He worked for another family out in Vegas, but when his mom fell ill, he wanted to be closer to her. And I always respect a man who puts family first.

I draw in a deep breath, restoring my composure as I twist the doorknob and find Sergeant O'Ryan scanning the bookshelves behind my desk.

"A text would have been nice, Doyle," I state flatly, leaning back against the wall.

He scrubs a hand over his buzzed auburn hair. "I know, I'm sorry Bowie, but it was urgent."

His words give me pause, and I take a moment to really look at Doyle. Faint shadows of restlessness rim his eyes and the muscle in his jaw feathers as he clenches his teeth.

"Okay, what is it then?" I question, crossing my arms at my chest.

"A body washed up off Lakeshore this morning." He swallows harshly. "No teeth, no fingertips, a GSW to the head, almost nothing to identify him by."

"I like you, O'Ryan. I really do, but if you don't spit it out, you'll be drinking through a straw for a month," I deadpan.

He lets out a ragged breath. "They were able to identify him, and while your name didn't come up…" He pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping across the screen before turning it towards me. "I need to know if you'll be seeking retribution for this."

Pushing off from the wall, I shove my hands in my pockets as I close the gap between us to get a closer look. Adams's swollen, naked body fills the phone screen, his skin splotched gray.

I run the tip of my tongue along my teeth from behind my lips as I weigh my options. On one hand, I could pin this on Belluci and have O'Ryan ready to cover my tracks. Or, on the other, I could let it go. I got my pound of flesh for Adam's shortcomings, and I really don't need to invite more chaos into my home when the missing drugs are still an issue.

"No," I murmur, staring at the framed picture of me with my parents and sister at the family cabin on my desk. "There will be no action from our side."

The tension visibly leaves O'Ryan as his shoulders ease and he lets out a sigh of relief.

"But I need a favor," I add, turning to level him with an arduous stare. "I need you to bury this case. I don't care how, but it ceases to exist after tonight."

His throat bobs with a harsh swallow as he studies my face, the hard-ass, impassive mafia mask I always wear firmly in place.

"Bowie-" he starts.

I arch a brow.

"Okay," he concedes. "Consider it done." His tone is as tepid as my mood.

I lead him out the front, careful to avoid any of the players seeing him. Fracassi's cooperation with the FBI left a stigma on being seen with any type of police. Even if every family has an officer of some sort in their pocket, it's best left in the shadows, and with there already being whispers of doubt around my ability to lead, the last thing I need is to give them more rope to hang me with.

After O'Ryan's taillights are nothing more than a smudge of red on the horizon, I fish a cigarette from my pocket, lighting it up and taking a drag as I round the side of the club to find a blacked-out Mercedes idling in the alley. I don't make it five steps before the back drivers' side door swings open and a person tumbles out, struggling to find their footing.

The guy spits a glob of blood on the cement, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he starts to walk toward me. He flicks his hood up as his gray eyes meet mine in passing.

Cazzo, it's the fucker from the other night.

The fact he's turned up outside two of my buildings lately makes the trepidation palpable. Glancing up at the security camera, I make a mental note to check if he's an associate, because if he is, I want him gone. I don't like the read I'm getting from this guy, and I really don't like men who hurt women.

"What's the buy-in?"

A familiar Italian lilt sets my teeth on edge. My fingers curl tighter around the door handle, pausing with it halfway open. Of course that douchebag I passed would associate with the likes of Gabriel Belluci. My head swivels over my shoulder as I ask, "What do you want, Belluci?"

"I'm here to play poker," he shrugs, stepping around from the passenger side of the Mercedes.

"Your money's no good here, Gabriel," I chide.

He lets out a low chuckle. "What, you think you're better than me, Bowie?"

My shoulders edge up toward my ears as rage scorches a path through my veins. I release the door, pivoting on my heels and marching right over to the smug bastard. I stab my finger into his sternum repeatedly, punctuating each word. "I. Am. Better. Than. You." I suck in a breath, spitting at his feet to drive my point home. "I'm not in the flesh trade."

His lips press into a flat line, hand reaching up to smooth the fabric of his gold Versace shirt. "Those in glass houses, shouldn't cast stones," he says, his thick dark brows slamming down in a scowl over his dark eyes. "Word on the street is your product is stepped on, merda, that it's killing off its customers." He shrugs his shoulders. "Seems like a bad business model if you ask me."

"I didn't," I spit. "Now get the fuck outta my alley."