Page 32 of Conning the Billionaire
Footsteps clomped in the hallway outside, coming closer.
Kylie said, “It doesn’t matter what my name is because my friends should be getting me out right about—”
The door opened, and yet another new security guy stuck his head in. “Miss Miller, you’re free to go.”
She grinned at Kelvin. “—now.”
Damn, she was glad Salvatore had come through.
Kelvin squinted his eyes so hard that they disappeared between the folds of his fleshy eyelids. “I thought you said your name wasn’t Miller.”
Kylie stood. “It doesn’t matter what my name is. This guy says I’m free to go, and he looks like he’s your boss. So I’m leaving. Caio.”
She swished out of the security office and beat feet through the casino and out to the street, swiping on her phone the whole time so that a rideshare car was waiting for her as she emerged from the sliding glass doors.
Eighty thousand dollars. That blond Italian asshole had nearly conned her for eighty thousand dollars.
But she’d walked away from the con and took the diamond earrings worth half of that amount with her.
Kylie told the driver, “Get me outta here.”
11
LYING LOW
KYLIE
Kylie watched out the back windows of the rideshare car as they careened through the streets of Atlantic City, watching for anyone who might be following them.
The driver was a tall guy she’d never met before, his bald head nearly brushing the car’s headliner as the car silently swerved through the Monopoly-named streets toward her apartment.
She watched for black cars or SUVs, or other vehicles that might be following them.
The Borgata was the type of business that would use black SUVs for their security just for their menacing appearance. After all, the word borgata literally meant Mafia family. Salvatore Grande’s associates, however, would either be more subtle or more stereotypical. Some of them were probably driving black Cadillacs or Lincolns because they’d watched Goodfellas too many times.
Salvatore might have decided that Kylie was more of a liability than a big earner after her fiasco the night before.
They drove through the Sunday morning in Atlantic City, which meant there were few cars on the streets.
The parking lots around the Catholic Churches were packed.
And Sunday morning meant that Kylie had an appointment.
After a quick shower and a desperate hunt through her apartment to find an envelope to stuff the week’s money into, Kylie slithered into a demure Sunday dress, clipped her silver cross necklace around her neck, and caught an Amtrak train to Philadelphia for Mass.
The bump-pass went off without a hitch, but Salvatore grabbed Kylie’s arm before she could move past him. His slim face and patrician nose homed in on Kylie, and he stared into her eyes with eagle-like intensity. “Thought you weren’t going to make it.”
She stretched her face into a sweet grin. “I never miss Mass, and thank you for getting me out of trouble, Mr. Grande.”
“You owe me.”
“I always remember my debts.”
Salvatore nodded and walked on to greet His Eminence Cardinal Anthony Fiorenza, the Archbishop Emeritus of Philadelphia, who had pushed his way through the crowd to pay his respects to Salvatore Grande.
After Mass and riding the train for an hour and a half back to Atlantic City, Kylie dragged herself back into her crappy apartment, sniffed for gas as she always did when she walked in but found none, and fell flat on her face on her twin bed.
Damn.
