Page 71 of Manic

“That is not happening,” Luka snapped. “You will never own my casinos. This is my livelihood."

“Not your casinos, but your daughter?” Dmitri chuckled, then glanced at me. “Mm, priorities.”

What did that mean? I stiffened and Manic’s grip on me tightened. Other than the slight feathering to his jaw, his expression remained composed.

“Luka is right,” Ronan added. “You won’t be owning the casinos. You’ve already caused enough trouble in our territory. It’s bad enough the city council is breathing down my neck over the crimes you’ve continued to commit so openly. You’re lucky we don't ship your men back to you in bodybags.”

Dmitri curled his lip and glanced at Manic, almost as if there was personal history there. I’d make it a point to ask him about it later.

Manic ignored Dmitri and leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Feliks Volkov is the Russian mafia leader. The other two beside him are Dmitri and Draven, his sons. Dmitri is their heir, but you’ve already met him.”

Manic confirming our meeting didn’t sit well with me. Either way, I slid my eyes over and nodded, even as a cold numbness settled along my skin. Manic straightened and faced the group once more, tension blooming in his sharp features.

“That’s what we agreed on,” Feliks clipped.

“No, what we agreed on was opening the ports and building an alliance to take out the Irish. We’re here now to work out a schedule that tailors to everyone’s… needs,” Ronan drawled. “You could use your own ports if you want to call off the alliance?”

Feliks scoffed. “You know that won’t work. We’re already being watched by another cartel.”

“I think it’s clear we don’t want you in our territory,” Manic said finally, and everyone shifted to him. “We don’t trust you, and the last thing we need is for you all to own our casinos.”

“Our,” Luka mockingly hissed under his breath, shaking his head. “We can’t allow port access all the time. It would cause too much suspicion. The same with the money. If we cleaned your money more than twice a month, I’d be targeted by the feds again.”

I clamped my jaw as a glaring realization practically slapped me in the face, and each word that spilled from my father’s mouth only pissed me off more. A thought flared, and anger clawed at my chest like a trapped animal.

Did he pawn me off to the mafia to keep his casinos? My breath grew thin as betrayal pulsed beneath my skin, at the sense of being cast aside by my own family. Anything was possible, and I wouldn’t put it past him to strike such a deal.

It was clear my father was annoyed about my presence as he avoided my gaze. That alone only proved he never cared about me, but his casinos. He lived and breathed his work, so pawning me off made too much sense.

And now the mafia was here, disrupting his life with me by their side. As long as the casinos remained standing, I was positive he’d let the mafia do as they pleased with me. And realizing that sent me over the edge.

I plastered a cool smile and watched as everyone continued to argue. Men with egos far too large for this room. It was in the clipped retorts, the barely hidden snarls, and the flexing of jaws.

Little did they know, I loved strategy.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I loved books, but I was good at strategy. It was why I enjoyed a solid game of chess—why my father forced me into mathematics, econometrics, and market design. I identified patterns in complex systems. And, for the last two weeks, I’d studied every single number Manic had given me from the casino. I’d collected a pattern like rare gemstones in a cavernous peak.

“You don’t need ownership,” I said, pulling my shoulders back.

Everyone grew quiet, their eyes falling to me. Manic’s gaze beat into the side of my face, but he said nothing. It became so silent in the room, I would’ve been able to hear a pin drop.

“No?” Dmitri leaned forward and clasped his hands. “And what does girl like you think we need?”

I smirked. “You need access and control without the possibility of being targeted, yes? The Crowes obviously don’t want you in their territory any more than needed. But I think you’d be able to come to an… agreement of sorts. One where everyone got what they wanted.”

Ronan’s features tightened, but he waved me on.

“Absolutely not,” my father barked. “She will not be making any decisions for this casino. She has no sway.”

“Shut up, Luka,” Ronan snapped.

I swallowed my nerves and continued. “We could allow limited, scheduled port access. Two to three shipments windows per month, mid-week and never the weekends⁠—”

“A month?” Dmitri hissed, cutting me off. “That’s not enough. We need at least two a week with cartel.”

He spouted something else in Russian, as it was clear his argument couldn’t be fully explained in English. Two more minutes of clipped retorts, and my fingers curled in my lap.

I hated being interrupted.