Page 9 of Bad Blood

I have to protect that sound.

I can’t let it fade away.

Tonight, it’s play or pay.

Chapter Four

Santi

“Good men follow the rules.Smart men follow their instincts.” Locking eyes with Legado’s casino manager, I raise my glass, letting the words hang in the air.

The man’s face blanches, and with good reason. While mildly entertaining, the pathetic song and dance routine he just performed broke two of my three cardinal rules.

Never lie to me.

Never waste my time.

I can’t decide if it’s because he’s scared, stupid, or shrewd. All three can be dangerous to a man like me, which is why I don’t care to delve into what drove him to commit his first sin.

Never steal from a Carrera.

“Santi…” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “You don’t understand…”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I offer calmly. “I understand you perfectly, Ashford. You’ve reeked of desperation for weeks.”

A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “Santi...”

“Your priorities shifted from the bottom line to a white line.” A tinge of anger seeps through my cool façade.

He lifts his chin. “A little hypocritical from a man who imports and distributes it.”

Well, look who decided to grow a pair of balls.

“I sell it,cabrón,not snort it. That shit rots the brain, and like I said, smart men follow their instincts. If you’d followed yours, you would’ve come to me for a loan. Instead, you helped yourself.”

I’ve known for months that the man was up to his ass in debt and addiction.Not my problem.As long as he came to work, did his job, and kept his mouth shut, he could snort fucking bath salts for all I cared.

But he stuck his hand in my pocket and made it my problem.

“Yeah,” he huffs, more sweat glistening his forehead. “At forty percent interest.”

“This is Atlantic City,pendejo.You play, you pay.” Finishing my drink, I set the glass on the table before adding, “One way or another.”

I don’t elaborate. My reputation speaks for me. At twenty-two, I’ve accomplished more than men twice my age. New Jersey’s playground bows to me. For two years, I’ve owned its cocaine distribution, and now I’ve seized control of another of its vices.

Gambling.

It’s a side venture that feeds my hunger for power and vengeance. The only thing I love more than the smell of money is the scent of blood.

Neither masks the scent of a traitor.

Does forty-thousand-dollars make a difference in my bottom line? Not in the least. I’ve made twice that during the span of our conversation.

Could I forgive it?Probably.

Will I?No.

“I swear, Mr. Carrera,” he pleads, his knees bouncing with the frantic cadence of his words. “Nothing like this will ever happen again.”