82

Summer
I lean against my kitchen counter, my heart pounding. What just happened? What was Carlo going to tell me? He wanted me? Or he couldn’t be with me?
I scoot off and drop to my left foot, favoring the right. My foot stiffened during the night, making it hard to walk without a limp.
After I finished physical therapy, I returned to dance classes at Tisch School of the Arts. I could make it through the beginning barre, but once they move to “across the floor” exercises, I had to stop because the pain became too much. I had to take an incomplete in all the movement classes, which meant my dance major wasn’t going to happen. At my mom’s insistence, I changed my major to business. Now, I don’t even have time to get myself back in shape and rehab my foot. I figure returning to dance is impossible, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want to be a dancer. Without dance… hell. I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower.
Without dance, I don’t even know who I am.
I suppose it isn’t John’s fault I ended up stripping at The Candy Shop although I still refuse to see it as something negative the way Carlo does. I might have been filling a bigger void, though-the need to be on stage, to have my skills admired. Stripping was a far cry from making serious art, but the sexual electricity made up for that part. I was still moving to music, still improvising, creating. The energy I received from the men gave the same thrill I got from performing for an audience.
I peel off my jammies and twist to peer at my ass in the mirror. I still have a few red lines. Reaching back, I run my hands over my butt. I’ve lost a little muscle since my injury, but I could still hold my own in an ass competition. I always thought of it as my best asset. Heh.
I pinch some of the red areas, but the soreness has disappeared. Just a few twinges on the surface.
My core still clenches every time I think about last night. I want more of that side of Carlo. But was that it? Was the key drop-off the end of our steamy encounter, never to be mentioned again? Because I don’t think I can forget it so easily. In fact, I suspect I’ll be thinking of nothing but Carlo for a long time in the future.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s a group chat from some of the women in my study group. Business students, not dancers. They’re going out clubbing tonight.
I’d said I couldn’t go because I thought I’d be working at The Candy Shop, but I guess I’m available. It doesn’t sound all that fun, but that’s just because I don’t know them that well. I sort of lost my friend group with the breakup with John. Well, that’s not true, I’m sure they all still consider themselves friends with me, but I don’t like going out with them anymore because he might be there.
I guess the Candy Shop was filling a social void as well. Maggie lives with her boyfriend, Pete, so they don’t go out much. When they do, it’s with the same group of friends that John belonged to, which means the atmosphere would be beyond awkward if I went along.
I sigh. I won’t create a new social life staying home and moping. I text back, My plans fell through. I’ll meet you guys there.
Carlo
I double-check the security cameras trained on the table and outside the door. Two soldiers wait outside the warehouse to keep an eye on the parking lot. Five more play security inside.
Sonny and Vince are my main guys. Sonny’s a solid soldier. Vince is a dick. A cousin of Al’s who definitely resents the position I’ve created for myself here. I always watch my back with him. Hell, I watch my back with everyone. My own brother tried to kill me back home. I know all too well that no one is safe in this business.
No one will be cheating at high-stakes cards on my watch or knocking off the participants. Running the weekly high-roller game is one of my more pleasurable duties. I enjoy the exchange of big money, the tension brought by high stakes. I like the character study my customers offer.
I have regulars. Ordinary guys with extraordinary gambling problems. Lawyers, investment bankers, real estate agents. I have criminals who come in a rare meeting of the underworld. A guy from the Russian mafiya, a Cuban gangster, a mean-looking white guy who’s somehow involved with the Russian. Sometimes a few of our own drop in.
The special knock set up for today’s game sounds-two long, three short. I open the door to peer out. The Russian mobster, Alexei Kaloshov, stands there, looking lethal and high on uppers of some kind.
I step back to allow him entry. Alexei isn’t the handshaking sort. He’s more the type who would pull a knife and stab you if you accidentally jostled him. He wears a designer button-down shirt, open two buttons at the collar to reveal a tattoo of a dagger going through his neck.
From what I understand, the Russian mafiya are decorated with prison tattoos, and every one of them have a symbolic meaning. The dagger through the throat means the wearer committed murder, or would kill for hire, and the drips of blood are for each victim. Alexei’s drips extend beyond where they are visible, but I suspect there are a lot. Too many, even for a mobster. The guy has a murderous vibe, and he uses drugs, so I always keep a close eye on him.
Sonny stands behind the table, ready to take his money and give him chips.
I let in several more guests, all clients I expect or at least know. Nine men show up and take seats around the large wooden table in the warehouse chosen for this week’s game. In a matter of five hours, we transformed one section of the industrial space. A fine Persian rug lies on the floor, and the solid carved oak table sits in the middle. A stained-glass chandelier dangles mid-air over the table, suspended from the rafters by two twenty-foot chains. The chairs are cushioned red leather. Drinks are provided in crystal glasses with ice, served by a cocktail waitress in a hot outfit. Small speakers are strategically set around the room, and they play Sinatra on low volume.
The knock sounds again. I open the door and blink. Gio, one of the younger soldiers, stands there with a white guy. Make that-stands there with a cop. I have nothing to go on other than the guy’s short hair and steady gaze, but my instincts say it loud and clear.
I don’t open the door any wider. “What’s up?” I ask, ignoring the stranger and focusing on Gio. The only question in my mind now is whether Gio knows he brought a cop.
“Hey Carlo, how’s it going?”
I don’t answer, just stare the guy down.
Gio shifts. “I brought a friend.” He jerks a thumb at the cop. “Is there a game?”
“Nope. No game tonight. Maybe next week.” My eyes slide to the cop, whose gaze remains steady.
Gio looks confused. “Oh, I guess I had it wrong?”
“Yeah. You had it wrong.”
Gio rubs his face as he turns and scans the parking lot, taking in all the signs that the game is, indeed, happening. He isn’t the brightest guy on the street, but fortunately he isn’t completely stupid. “Okay, cool. I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. I need to see you tomorrow, actually. Meet me at Angelo’s at ten.” The Italian deli serves as one of our meeting places for business.
A trace of fear shows in Gio’s face, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s guilty. He just understands something went wrong. “Sure thing, Carlo. See you in the morning.”
I ignore the other guy until he turns around, then I watch him until they both get into Gio’s car and drive off.
After the game, I’ll get the feed from the camera and run the guy’s photo. I need to know what I’m dealing with.