Page 6

Arosso

Why am I here right now?

Commotion surrounds me from each of the card tables. Background noise becomes my playground, because I made a living out of discerning and deciphering all of it. Nikolaj Vikyav has been the current game organizer for the last five or so years… which means he has no idea who I am.

Concealed under a black baseball cap, greased up beard like I just came off a bender, and compression sleeves to taper down my muscles under a long sleeve grey shirt… I’m nobody.

The old instincts lying dormant within me come alive.

My face is deadpan as I accept my chip rack and give them the token that buys me into the casino.

It’s a mix of low-to-mid level gangsters from all walks.

Grudges and hits are left at the door, no matter what .

As my senses heighten, I catch coded talk of the ‘pig-load’ being transported… I again ask myself…

Why am I here?

Why did I call the tip in to Donny? He was doing just fine without knowing what the Russians were sticking their noses into.

The answer is simple: the young woman weeping on my floor.

Quinn.

Ever since I laid eyes on her three mornings ago, her face has only gotten brighter in my mind. She woke this ghost back to life. Bossing around people on movie sets… intimidating them… it’s a hollow life only to chase one’s power. I miss providing for someone.

Not just someone… I want to protect her.

Because you couldn’t protect them?

I stop the questions cold in my head, casually making way to the table of two muscle-head Russkies in white cut-offs alluding to the whereabouts of her father.

They speak a mix of broken English and rough Russian, which is drowned out by the others talking about last hand.

Not for me, though. I understand both fluently. My old line of work calls for it.

As I stack my chips and call myself into the next hand, I’m careful.

All eyes glance to the new player, and I lift my head to show there’s nothing to hide.

But that’s a lie. They’re seeing blond-brown hair brushed over my forehead that isn’t mine.

The brown eyes I use to browse the table are fake too.

Contacts, hair plugs, a cool demeanor with a few painted scars tells the story of a man who doesn’t exist.

All they’ll know is I’m Italian, Jersey crew. They’ll assume part of one of the families, low level muscle. I’ll have to act a little slow in my voice, because at my age? I should be a capo or at least someone recognizable.

Don’t win too much. Don’t play too smart.

The first deal comes—cards sliding across the black felt table sends a serene tingle through my fingertips. Peeking at pocket kings, I fold them as soon as I’m able. The fastest way to gain attention in Texas Hold’em is to win without using the collective cards. Stay quiet. Stay under the radar.

A few hands go by. The two Russkies stopped tactical talk ever since one of the old-school triads took his seat at the end of the table. Not sure if they’re uncomfortable or what, but I have all night.

There’s some drama with a triad and bratva player one table down, which catches some eyes and chuckles on my end, but other than that, it’s pretty smooth so far.

The big guy directly next to me isn’t much for small talk, so I’m left to daydream about the broken woman who’d do anything to get her family back.

Me too, kid .

The way she looked at me from her window, with those fiery dark eyes… I obsess about the moment often. We’re drawn to each other, even if I pretend we aren’t.

Four draws later, and I’m down a cool five thousand. Travel expenses. Donny will understand. And it’s worth the loss, because once the old triad stands up with his cane—cursing at the dealer under his breath—the bratva boys chuckle and pick up talks again.

“Noon the load idet k gruzoviku, in… in Palisades. Then shwoop , off to the sea. And we collect, eh? ” The bigger of the two uses his hand to signal take off.

“ Da. Vremeni. ” The smaller one winks.

Loose code. Noon is midnight, which is five hours from now, he’s going by truck to their warehouse near the Palisades cliff in Jersey.

Once he’s shipped, they get their big pay day.

Shipped where, though? If I wagered a guess, Captain Dall killed or put away someone related to a powerful boss, and that boss wants his revenge.

There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense, though. How—in a time where cameras are everywhere—were these thieves able to transport him so seamlessly? Every PD in Jersey should be working on this one.

No matter. I have to exit this game fast and infiltrate that warehouse.

You’re just supposed to observe, Aros. Technically, you’ve already done your job. Give the information over to the don and wash your hands.

The curious ghost in me wants to know if Captain Dall is dead or alive, however. And more, what are they going to do with him?

A few more hands go by.

“ What happens next for pig-load, you think? ” The big bratva nudges the smaller when he thinks no one is listening.

“ Yuri? He is a sick man, comrade. Pig’s punishment will fit the crime. Slowly. Eh? ”

“ Da. Da. ”

So, Captain Dall lives, I think to myself. But not for long.

I narrow my eyes at the two cards in front of me.

Flipping up the tips, I see a jack of spades and two of hearts.

Awful, off-suit garbage. On the flop, I pick up a pair of twos.

This is the perfect hand to exit on. I call the small bets and flip my cards to show an obvious loss to a higher pair.

Following the lead of the old triad loser, I scoff, scoop up my chips and kick my chair aside to leave.

“Whoa, whoa. Not even a tip for the dealer?” The smaller bratva man laughs, as does the rest of the table.

I just grunt again and head toward the desk to cash out.

On my way, I notice a thin man with one side of his head shaved and the rest of his hair full and snake-like.

He struts with a gaudy black lapel clashing with a bright blue swirly-designed suit.

Fucking Russians. That’s Nikolaj. If he’s here when ten other games are running, that means someone else of importance is too.

Too bad I’m not sticking around to find out.

xxx

An hour after my invisible exit of the underground casino, I’m parked in the Jersey forests on my way to the Palisades warehouse. Sitting in the backseat, I sift through my duffle bag. My options are to pose as a Russian enforcer moving cargo, or remain an unseen ghost.

Since I don’t know enough of the operations to blend in, I’ll go with the latter.

They won’t expect someone like me. Donny doesn’t have anyone on payroll with my expertise.

Vzz!

I pull a foot of tight string from the roller and clip it; in case I have to make a move. My clothing is all matte black to blend into the shadows, and my footwear is mostly cloth to muffle footsteps. Two pistols with silencers are strapped carefully on my leg and side.

It’s not my intention to cause a massacre, but I don’t rule it out either.

My cousin—the don—trusts my judgement. Always has. And he knows I won’t link any Russian hits back to the Valentinos. All he’d have to do is deny his involvement, and Yuri, or Nikolaj, or whoever , would never be the wiser.

Exiting the car to test my movements over leaves, I notice my joints aren’t as nimble as the last time I worked. The cold is actually affecting me. Fuck that. My senses are as keen as ever. Knowing the rhythms and octaves that would raise suspicion is like second nature to me.

Time to get to work.

Seeing no headlights for a mile in either direction on the highway, I pull harshly off the side of the road and speed toward the warehouse.

I’m old school. I use coordinates and maps to identify my targets.

The young kids can stick to their GPS, make their minds mush, but I’ll remain sharp as a fucking tack.

Years ago, I made it my business to know all the locations of our rivals. The bratva had six warehouses back then. Now they’re up to twenty-two, according to Donny. This is still one of their most trusted locations to stay off-grid, which means they won’t be on guard.

After all, they’d see anyone coming from a mile away… That’s why I’m parking two .

There may be a time crunch, but I still stopped an exit before the Palisades cliff just to be safe, and pulled off-road under a hill. Now that I’m settled, my heartrate rises as the job closes in. This old feeling is what I used to chase on a nightly basis.

Checking my pistols one more time to ensure they’re loaded, I shove them into their straps and pull out the black car cover for the unlikely event I have to exit without it.

Most of my old constituents lived for the thrill of the hunt.

Me? I live to haunt.

I practice running on the curves of my feet, off rhythm, careful to blend with the cold winds and swaying branches. Taking note of my direction and marking the trees on my way are second nature.

Controlled breathing while going uphill isn’t as easy as it used to be, but I manage.

In thirty minutes, I’m within the vicinity of the warehouse with hours to spare. The time is 9:57 in the evening. Russian accents echo through the trees, beyond the road path leading to the sturdy construction.

I crawl between two trees and hold up a scope to put vision to the voices.

Two grunts complain about heavy cargo as they slowly put down a barrel to take a break.

They’re taking it toward the side garage entrance, which is undoubtedly the easiest path in.

Slipping through the front door would equal casualties.

Shifting the scope to the roof, there’s no guards atop it. In fact, the warehouse seems much less lively than I expected. Red flag. Is the “ pig-load ” something other than Quinn’s father? Or are they keeping the whereabouts close to the chest?

It’s possible the Russians are leading the cops off course by heading to different locations.

It’s also possible I jumped the gun.

Only one way to find out.