Page 25 of Maximum Bet

Sal greets us when we walk in the door. After hugs and kisses, he ushers us to the back room and to Dominic’s usual booth. While Sal and Dominic catch up in Italian, I glance at the pictures lining the walls—black-and-white photos from an FBI raid on the restaurant decades ago. The Feds never found anything incriminating, but the family has been paranoid since. They regularly sweep for bugs, and only known Romano-Tariello associates and their families are allowed in the back room.

A waitress appears with a plate of antipasto and a bottle of Chianti. We thank her as Dominic pours the wine into glasses, and I place an olive and a piece of salami on my appetizer plate.

Dominic isn’t in a hurry to talk. He wraps a few pieces of cheese in prosciutto and finishes half his wine before stopping to stare at me.

“I thought you were hungry.” He scrutinizes me, emerald and gold, watching every move I make as I wring my hands in my lap.

“I was.”

He wipes his napkin against his mouth before leaning in, forearms resting on the table. “What’s wrong?”

I catch my lip between my teeth before releasing a long breath. “Where are you going with Marco and Leo?”

Dominic leans back, settling in his seat as his eyes flick to the empty tables next to us. “Ah. You’re concerned.”

“Should I be?”

We pause as a busser passes by.

Dominic tilts his head as his lips purse, further swirling the anxiety in my gut. “I’m not going to lie and tell you there’s no risk involved. That’s not new, though, Cassandra. There’s risk involved with everything I do.”

“I know.” I pick at my olive with a fork. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

He takes a drink of water, eyeing my plate. “I will if you eat.”

“Fine.” I place the olive in my mouth and chew slowly.

He scoots around the circular booth until he’s by my side, and his voice drops. “We think we know where Kozlova and Perez are.”

“Where?” I gasp. This is huge. Dominic has been looking for those assholes since they disappeared in Mexico.

“San Juan. Or at least they’re meeting there. We’re going to fly to Martinique on Monday and take a boat to San Juan on Tuesday.”

I eat my salami. “Why Martinique? Can’t you just fly directly to Puerto Rico?”

Dominic smirks and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I’ve got someone on my case who’s keeping track of my flight logs. I don’t want them to know my final destination.”

“Oh, my God.” I lift my wine to take a sip as I roll my eyes. “Are you two still working together?”

He gives me a sharp glance and shushes me. “No one knows.”

“No one would care,” I retort.

“Trust me.Everyonewould care.”

“Dominic.” I take a few more items from the antipasto tray and place them on my plate. “I think that after everything that happened in Mexico, your family and organization would understand why you’re working with—”

He slaps a hand over my mouth. “Don’t say it.”

“Fine.” I shake my head. “Working withyou know who.”

“Anyway.” He side-eyes me as he returns to his side of the table. “That’s what’s going on.”

I chew and swallow a bite-sized ball of mozzarella. “Just stay safe and check in with me while you’re gone.”

“Only if you’ll send me pictures while I’m away.” He winks.

I laugh. Of course, he’d try to barter with racy selfies.