Chapter 12

Once the EMTs give me the proper medical clearance, I grab my furry little besties and head straight for the heart of this denizen of sin—the illegal gambling casino in the basement.

I never said my uncle was a saint.

The air in the basement is heavy with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the hint of cheap liquor. The casino itself is dimly lit yet spacious and seems to go on an entire football field. It wouldn't surprise me one bit to find out that my uncle hollowed out half of Leeds to make all of his dicey dreams come true.

It holds all of the glitz and glamour of a Vegas casino, if that casino paid out poorly and was run by the mob.

Rows and rows of one-armed bandits line the place, glittering, whistling, and pulsating—just begging to suck the life right out of your wallet.

There's a smattering of roulette tables, several dozen poker and blackjack tables, and the requisite booze station is set up every three feet.

And let's not forget the throngs of people. The hopes and dreams of these poor souls might bring them through the door, but it's the booze that keeps the money flowing—right out of the wallets of these greedy fools.

Speaking of greedy fools, I pluck a few quarters out of my pocket—the sum total income of my short-lived career as a stripper—and drop it into a winking, blinking machine that holds the promise of a triple seven.

"All right, boys," I say to the cute pooches that I'm holding hostage in my arms. "Rub a paw over the beast for good luck. Mama needs a brand new bag—that I can potentially hock and retire off of." Both Watson and Spooky do their thing, aka slobbering like a couple of pros. They had a lot of practice upstairs, and I no sooner pull the handle than I hear what sounds like a seal barking in the next row over.

I crane my neck that way just as a bell goes off and I spot a dark-haired woman in a hot pink tracksuit clapping and whooping it up as the lights spasm at the slot machine in front of her. And just as she's swarmed by an entire gaggle of employees, I gasp at the sight. But it's not the fact she's just won a thousand dollars according to the blinking sign above her head that has me astonished. It's the fact Loretta the Black Widow Lazzari is just a few feet away—striking it rich in Canelli country no less.

I cast a rueful glance back at my coin-hungry machine as it does its best to shake me down once again and instead, I shake my head in dismay.

I'd better boot-scoot out of this place before Loretta spots me and runs straight to Cooper with the latest gossip. The last thing I need is Cooper putting two and two together before we can put one and one together—as in ourselves. And speaking of which, if I don't get his name crossed off my hit list, it will be one and none.

I hightail it to a series of darkened hallways to the left, and that dark and depressing labyrinth eventually leads to the scariest room of them all in this morally bankrupt place—my uncle's office.

After tap-dancing around a couple of his henchmen, begging them not to shoot, and tossing my surname around as if it were an FBI badge, I finally get in.

The office is small and boxy. It has all of the appeal of the inside of a metal filing cabinet and is about as roomy as a coffin. You'd think a guy as rich as Jimmy would be seated on a fourteen-karat gold throne—in the form of a toilet due to his bladder issues—but nonetheless, my uncle is a man of simple needs. Or just plain poor decorating skills.

Uncle Jimmy is perched behind a big desk veiled from the smoke of his cigar, looking every bit like someone who wouldn't hesitate to pluck your heart out and stick it on a cupcake. In that sense, he's got a lot in common with Lottie—at least during this time of year.

He's sitting under the one and only light in this abysmal hovel, and oddly enough it gives him the appeal of an angel of light. Yet everyone knows the devil was once an angel, and I'm starting to think his name was Jimmy Canelli.

He's old as dirt, has a head of thick gray hair, and dark empty eyes to match his soul.

"Bella facia." He offers me the same greeting he has since I was a kid. Come to think of it, he greets my sisters the exact same way. I bet it really cut down on having to remember any of our names. "What's this? Another dog?" He motions for me to hand them over and I let them loose on the desk.

Both Watson and Spooky trot his way and lick his face silly until he's giggling like a schoolgirl.

Traitors.

Although it might be wise to get him in a good mood, and what better way to do it than with some canine lovin'? If that doesn't work, I know a naughty nurse upstairs who could do things with a stethoscope that were so impressive, ten different men emptied out their 401K and tucked it into her uniform. And once she donned those latex gloves, they emptied out their wife's 401K, too.

"What can I do for you?" he asks with that dreamy look only a couple of puppies could provide.

"Why does Cooper have to go?" I decide to cut right to the chase before one of the dogs does his business on top of Jimmy's lap. I figure I'm on a timer in that department. Seeing that it takes place regularly when we're at home, it's destined to happen. As cute as those little furry faces are, they're nothing but ticking time bombs when it comes to peppering the place with their special little brownies.

"He's onto us." Uncle Jimmy frowns as if he isn't happy about it either.

"He's not onto us. He's more in love with me than ever before."

A part of me wants to offer to take down every other Lazzari in exchange for him. But even attempting that would set off a turf war like no other. And yet I happen to think Cooper is worth a turf war or two.

"Effie." He rolls his eyes.

So he does know my name—and apparently, how exasperating I can be.

"He's a cop," he continues. "He's one of them. To top it off, he's a Lazzari. I don't care how many times he changes his last name, he can't change the fact he's blood from the same bowl."

Eww.

As much as I'd like to insist that Coop has nothing to do with his looney tunes family, the head looney tune of the Lazzari clan is sitting no less than fifty feet away collecting cold, hard Canelli-issued cash to the tune of one grand. And Cooper just so happens to have a heart for her.

And I just so happen to have a heart for Cooper.

Oh, what a twisted web we weave when first we practice to off a few people for some government-issued lettuce.

"Which brings me to my next point," I say, brazenly unfinished with my last. "Johnny the Meatball Marino's brother dropped dead last night. We can't off Johnny or we'll be offing his mother by proxy."

Sure, Aunt Cat already told me that he's well aware, but I figure it couldn't hurt to drive the point home.

Uncle Jimmy's eyes turn a strange shade of red. Come to think of it, his entire countenance glows with the unholy hue.

Looks like I was right about that devil thing because I can almost see his horns sprouting.

"That no-good-for-nothing weasel should have thought about that before taking off with a pile of my money and giving me the finger once my men showed up to collect."

"Maybe he was just trying to point out that he needed another minute?" I cringe as the words leave my mouth.

"He was pointing out that he likes to dance with death." He leans my way and looks every bit like the son of perdition—if the son of perdition wore a gold rope necklace with a gold horn dangling from it. An obvious ode to his homeland, and I'm not talking about Italy.

"That boy is one dead meatball," he growls. "And so is the Lazzari with the badge. If you don't take care of business by midnight next Tuesday, it'll be my business to take care of you. As much as it pains me, Bella, the only way out of this is through a casket. Now whose body is going to lie in it? Theirs or yours?"

"Yours," I say, jumping out of my seat and he reaches for his weapon. "GAH! I mean theirs."

Grammar isn't exactly my strong suit while my life is on the line.

"Don't you worry," I say, scooping up fuzzy Thing One and furry Thing Two—hoping Jimmy won't notice the puddle Thing Two just left on his desk. "I'll have those men dead and delivered straight to the morgue by midnight next Tuesday." I pause at the door. "Why next Tuesday?"

He shrugs. "It's Halloween. I'd like to think of it as my contribution to the great beyond in honor of All Souls' Day."

"How charitable of you." I lift a puppy as if to toast him and a trail of tinkle rains from his hind end.

"Leave, before your luck runs out," Uncle Jimmy shouts and I run all the way out of the dark labyrinth of hallways, only to smack right into a hot pink Italian princess who just so happens to be one grand richer.

Would you look at that?

My luck just ran out.