The Blind Bet

The Velvet Lounge didn’t smell like velvet. It smelled of stale beer, damp wool, and the acrid, biting scent of desperation. It was a basement dive in Brooklyn masquerading as a jazz club, where the saxophone player was always a beat behind and the ice in the drinks melted too fast.

Leo "The Kid" Rossi stood in the corner, trying to look like the furniture. He adjusted his collar for the tenth time in as many minutes. The suit was off the rack, a polyester blend that scratched his neck and fit poorly across his shoulders. He was nineteen, broad-chested, and had the earnest, wide-eyed look of someone who had watched *The Godfather* too many times and misunderstood the ending.

He wasn't a soldier. Not yet. He was a babysitter.

"Hit me," Dante Vargo’s voice rasped across the green felt table.

Leo shifted his weight, wincing. Dante "The Dice" Vargo was a legend in the family, but for all the wrong reasons. He was fifty going on eighty, with a face like a crumpled paper bag and a nicotine stain on his soul. He was a bagman who never made captain, a sidekick who never got his own spinoff.

"Mr. Vargo," Leo murmured, leaning down. "The Boss said to keep it low profile. You’re down three grand."

Dante waved a hand, ash from his cigarette drifting onto the felt. "Quiet, kid. I’m working."

"You’re losing," Leo corrected, though he kept his voice to a whisper.

The table was hostile. Opposite Dante sat three men built like refrigerators, their faces flushed with whiskey and aggression. The Irish crew. O’Malley, the leader, had eyes like flint. He had been stripping Dante of his chips for two hours.

"I’m all in," Dante announced, shoving his remaining stack—and the Family’s collection envelope—into the center.

Leo’s stomach dropped. "Dante, no."

"All in," Dante repeated, grinning. His teeth were yellow, but his eyes were bright, manic.

O’Malley laughed, a sound like gravel in a blender. "Your funeral, old man." He called.

The flop came. Garbage. The turn. Nothing.

Dante was holding a pair of threes. O’Malley was showing kings. It was over. Leo’s hand drifted toward the Glock tucked into his waistband beneath the cheap jacket. If they lost the collection money, the Boss wouldn't kill Dante; he’d kill the bodyguard who let it happen.

Then came the river card.

The dealer flipped it. A three.

Three of a kind.

The silence in the room was absolute. It sucked the air out of the basement. Dante let out a hoot that sounded like a dying car engine and raked in the mountain of chips.

"Luck is a lady!" Dante crowed, stacking the chips with trembling hands. "And tonight, she’s putting out!"

Leo didn't look at the money. He looked at O’Malley. The Irishman wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring at Dante’s throat with a terrifying, quiet focus.

"We need to go," Leo said, his voice tight. "Cash out. Now."

"Relax, kid," Dante said, tossing the dealer a tip that was worth more than Leo’s car. "Let me savor the moment."

"Now, Dante." Leo grabbed the older man’s elbow. His grip was hard enough to bruise. "Or I carry you."