Page 22 of Devil’s Reign

“Yeah, okay.” I don’t have the energy to muster up a smile for him, so I just give him my back as I walk towards the window, heart heavy with the crushing weight of my reality.

13

IVAN

“Not now,” I snap at Mira, seeing the questions forming in her eyes as I step out of the room, irrationally angry that Melani gave me her back. No, not because she turned away from me, but because of what came before it.

I hate the way the light drained from her eyes after my question. The way her shoulders slumped in defeat. I did that. With my words.

“Okay,” Mira says dryly. “So I came here at a bad time. I can see that now. Sorry to interrupt your sexy time.” She shudders like the idea alone makes her want to gag.

It’s good she thinks Melani is a woman I’m fucking and not a prisoner. I suppose I can thank that explosive outburst for the misconception.

My blood singes my veins as I glance back at the locked door. Boris stands faithfully outside. I drag my attention away and walk out of the suite, Mira following on my heels. Once we’re in the elevator, I pull myself together enough to look at her properly. She rarely comes over to visit me. I shouldn’t have taken my irritation out on her.

“You good?”

“Of course. I was just at a gallery around the corner. They want to display some of my pieces at their next exhibition. I thought I’d drop by to check on you while I was in the neighborhood.” She brushes her hair out of her face. “You good?”

I chuckle, reaching out to tug playfully at the strand she just tucked behind her ear. “Yes, I’m good, Elmira.” She swats my hand away with a mock glare as the elevator slides open. We step out together, and I spot her car waiting, driver and bodyguard already in position. I wave the bodyguard off and open the back door for her myself. “You’re going home now?”

“No, my studio. I need to come up with something fresh for the exhibition. Plenty of work to do.”

“Hmm.” I lean down and press a quick kiss to her cheek. She taps my shoulder affectionately as she slides into the back seat. I shut the door, then exchange a brief nod with her bodyguard and driver. They dip their heads in return before climbing in themselves.

As her car disappears from view, I head to my own. Luka is already behind the wheel, engine idling. I get in without a word, and he shifts into gear, pulling us out towards Queens.

“Should I stop here?” Luka asks, slowing the vehicle as we approach our destination.

“No,” I smirk. “Go further. I’m getting out right in front of the building.” I’m not going to park down the block and sneak in like some fugitive. No. If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it out in the open. Let them do their worst.

The social club Vincenzo Marino visits every Thursday is one of the oldest that the family owns—the very first club his grandfather built when he moved to New York decades ago. A piece of history, though you wouldn’t know it at first glance. The age shows in the brick building situated on one of the quieter streets in downtown Flushing. The only indication of its purpose is the weathered sign at the top that reads: Marino’s. Two bulky men—former street fighters by the look of them—sit on the front steps, smoking.

“Are you sure about this?” Luka isn’t worried about me. He knows I’ll be fine. What probably bothers him is that showing up like this unannounced could upset the truce our fathers forged years ago.

As an answer, I open the glove compartment and take out my Glock. I check the magazine to make sure it’s loaded, then slip it into the small of my back.

“Wait here,” I instruct him as I exit the car.

The men casually smoking scramble to their feet as soon as they spot me, tossing their cigarettes carelessly onto the sidewalk. Dirty animals. But this isn’t my territory, so I keep that observation to myself. One of them plants himself in front of the door, blocking it with his considerable bulk, while the other sneers. “Be gone, Ruso.”

I arch a brow at the heat in his tone. “Somehow, I don’t think your rank is high enough to refer to me in that derogatory manner. Back off or lose your fucking head.”

It’s not an empty threat, and the way he shifts on his feet tells me he knows it too. I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, but I will not tolerate disrespect from some low-ranking soldier.

“Do you have an appointment?” the one blocking the door asks, his voice not exactly polite but lacking the outright disdain of his companion.

“No, but I'm sure your Don will want to see me.” The confidence in my voice makes him hesitate.

Both men share a brief look. The one at the door sighs and takes out a walkie-talkie. A walkie-talkie, in this day and age. I swallow my exasperation. How Marino runs his patch is none of my business, even if it’s stuck in the last century.

The guard steps off the stoop and moves a short distance away, speaking into the device in low tones while casting repeated glances in my direction. After a couple of minutes, he returns with his face wiped clean of expression. Without a word, he walks up the stairs and pulls the door open for me.

The first thing that hits me as I step inside is the smell. The air reeks of cigars, worn leather, and a potent mix of alcohol and espresso that’s probably been soaking into the walls for decades. Heads turn the moment I cross the threshold, and several card games stall mid-play. The low buzz of conversation thins, then fades altogether, and someone even stops the music so that the only sound in the large entertainment room is the low hum of multiple air conditioning units working overtime. Even my footsteps disappear into the thick carpet stretching across the room.

I take a quick inventory of the space. Five men sit around a green felt-covered table in the back corner. A decent-sized wet bar stands at the far end, with three bartenders who are busy staring me down. Several card tables are scattered throughout, covered with stacks of poker chips, fat wads of cash, well-worn deck cards, and ashtrays full of cigar stubs and cigarette butts. And players, at least two dozen of them, whose full attention is locked on me instead of their hands.

A group of three large men lean against the wall not far from the bar, watching me intently—Vincenzo’s guards, most likely. At the central poker table, one man leans back in his chair. A cigar smolders between his fingers as he sizes me up, his face carefully blank. Vincenzo Marino.