Zippo comes to life, warming the underside of my chin as I light another cigarette. I only smoke when I’m procrastinating.
This is my third in five minutes.
I inhale, blackening my lungs with chemicals I can’t pronounce. As I exhale, I drop my head back against the wall and watch the haze melt into the night’s sky.
Fuck it.
We’re all going to die anyway.
On the other side of the street, the wagon creaks, then the door flies open, casting an orange glow over the cobbled stones. My eyes slide up to it and meet the gaze of a pissed-off gypsy.
“Are you going to stand there all night?” She crosses her arms and leans against the door frame. “You’re scaring off customers.”
The last thing I should do today is smile. You don’t smile on the day you bury both your parents, because there’s nothing funny about watching dirt being shoveled on top of your mama.
But I can’t stop amusement from curling my lips.
“I’d bet my entire investment portfolio that my mother has been your only customer since the Great Depression.” Scowling, she opens her mouth to snap back, but then she pauses and does a sweep of the empty street. “Where is your mother, anyway?”
My amusement turns into a bitter laugh, fueled by irony. I drop my cigarette and grind it into the cobbles with the heel of my shoe. “Does your crystal ball need a polish? She’s six-feet-under, darling.”
I push off the wall and close the gap between us, taking the rickety steps up to her wagon two-at-a-time and stopping just inches from her. She wraps her shawl tighter around herself, her wary gaze jumping up to meet mine.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Yeah? Perhaps I was wrong about you being a hack.”
“You don’t need to be psychic to tell,” she snaps, taking a step back into the wagon and giving a small shake of her head. “I can smell it on your breath. If you’re here for a reading, well, I don’t read for the intoxicated. Liquor makes it hard to see fortunes.”
I tug out my money clip, snap a few bills off the roll, and drop them at her feet.
“You see money though, surely?”
Her eyes narrow. I take advantage of her silence and push past her. I hitch up my suit pants and sink onto the low stool in front of the table.
Another laugh escapes me, this one tasting even more bitter than the last. Of all the places I should be tonight, a gypsy wagon in the scummy part of Vegas isn’t one of them. I sneer at the string lights and the candles because they do nothing to hide how pathetic it is in here. Raggedy throws and cushions in faded prints, stacks of dog-eared cards collecting dust.
Behind me, I hear long fingernails scraping the floorboard as the gypsy picks up my money. She lowers herself onto the bench opposite me, her old bones cracking.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother.” She picks up a deck of cards and splits it in two. “But I’m a cartomancer, not a medium.”
“I don’t speak con-artist.”
Her nostrils flare. “It means I tell fortunes with playing cards. I don’t make contact with the dead.”
“Good thing I’m not here to make small talk with my mother’s ghost then.”
Her eyes flick to mine, first with surprise, then they darken to a shade more sinister. “So you are here for a reading. When you came here with your mother three weeks ago, I offered you a reading and in return, you threatened to burn down my wagon, along with me inside of it.” She tilts her head, casting a suspicious gaze over my features. “But now you’ve changed your mind.”
I guess I have.
Mama was obsessed with fate. Lived her whole life by the turn of a tarot card or the shake of an eight-ball. It consumed her. She couldn’t even go to Starbucks without trying to make sense of the dregs at the bottom of her paper cup.
Me; I’m a clean-cut skeptic, which is ironic, considering I own a casino. But any sensible businessman in any sector knows that relying on luck to be successful is like closing your eyes, leaning into the wind, and hoping it’ll blow you in the right direction.
There’s skill, and there are odds. That’s it. Luck isn’t for the optimistic; it’s for the lazy and the desperate.
My mama was an exception; she didn’t fall into either of those categories. She had hope in her heart and money in her pocket, which made her a walking, talking payday for quacks like this one.
Fortune tellers, psychics, mediums: they are all cheats. And there’s nothing I hate more in this world than a cheat.
And yet…
I swallow the rock in my throat and rub at the scruff on my jaw.
And yet, this old gypsy in front of me—she knew my mama was going to die.
“You knew.”
She slowly sweeps up the fanned cards and places them in a neat pile. “Your mother drew the death duo.”
That fucking phrase. The first time I’d heard it, I had laughed in disbelief. Now, I don’t find it so funny.
Less than a month ago, Mama had turned up at my penthouse suite, loaded with an overnight bag and a spark in her eyes. She gifted me a watch to celebrate me opening my first casino, Lucky Cat. But it soon became clear that supporting my struggling business venture wasn’t her only reason for her visit to Sin City.
“There’s someone I’d like to see,” she’d said coyly, sitting at my dingy casino bar and white-knuckling a lemon drop martini. “A fortune-teller just off Fremont Street.”
I’d rolled my eyes, but she’d insisted. She’s the best. Nobody in the Pacific Northwest reads playing cards. Come on Rafey, when in Vegas…
I’d darkened the doorway of the wagon during the entire reading, fists in pockets, making sure she didn’t get ripped off any more than she’d agreed to.
First, she drew the Seven of Hearts. A betrayal by a loved one.
Then, the Jack of Diamonds. The bearer of bad news.
Lastly, the gypsy had flipped over the Ace of Spades.
The wagon had fallen silent. Eventually, my mama dragged her palms over her skirt and said, “Well, then.”
Now, I grip the edge of the table and shoot the gypsy a blistering glare. “The Death Duo,” I repeat. “You seriously telling me everyone who draws the Jack of Diamonds, followed by the Ace of Spades, keels over and dies?”
She hitches a shoulder. “It’s a rare combination.”
“Not that rare. The odds of drawing both cards consecutively from a single deck without replacing them is one in two thousand, six hundred and fifty-two.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“No, I’ve done the math.” I slip my hand in my pocket and brush my fingers over my dice. “It’s statistics. The law of probability.”
“Not everything in this world can be explained away with reason or logic.” There’s a smugness to her tone; one that makes me want to choke the life out of her. “But you’re beginning to see that, aren’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
I run my tongue over my teeth. Drag my eyes to the dusty beams propping up the roof of the wagon. The odds of my mama drawing the supposed Death Duo were slim, but the series of events that happened in the month after are near-impossible to put a statistical probability on.
Mama died from a heart attack, despite having a clean bill of health. Then, less than a week later, my father died from a sudden bleed on the brain.
I huff out a laugh of disbelief. A week. Seven fucking days; that’s all it took to wipe out half my immediately family. Seven days for the rug to be pulled from under my feet.
Today, it was Angelo who tugged the last square inch of said rug with his sudden announcement.
I’m not coming back to Devil’s Dip.
We were standing on the edge of the cliff, three feet from our parents’ freshly buried bodies when he told us. It wasn’t so much of a bombshell but a venomous whisper; he’d muttered the words so quietly I thought the wind was playing tricks on my ears.
But with one look into his dark eyes, I saw turbulence and an iron-clad resolve.
I guess I’m a liar. I do believe in fate in some way. Like every made man, my life path has been mapped out for me since the day I was born. My father was the capo of Devil’s Dip, and it was a given that once he died, the title would be passed to Angelo, my oldest brother. It was also a given I’d become his underboss, and Gabe, our youngest brother, his consigliere.
I’ve learned a hard lesson in seven days. Because now Angelo is halfway across the Atlantic, Gabe is fuck-knows-where, and I’m left standing at the end of my so-called path, alone, wondering where the road went.
The Cosa Nostra is my life, and I’ve spent most of my twenty-five years preparing for that underboss role.
Internships at Goldman Sachs and JP Morgan. A master’s degree from Harvard Business School. Hell, the only reason I bought a casino in Vegas was to learn the ropes before I built my legacy back home.
Home. Fuck. I’ve always thought home is where my family is, but now I’m not so sure. I know I could always go back to the Coast. Uncle Alberto would take me on as a Caporegime for the Devil’s Cove outfit, or if I wanted to keep my hands clean, he would give me a position on the board at his whiskey company in Devil’s Hollow.
But being a lackey isn’t in my blood. I’m born to build an empire, not lay the bricks for someone else’s.
“Deal the cards.”
My voice sounds more certain than I feel. The gypsy’s gaze lingers on mine, then she picks up the deck, shuffles through it, and lays two familiar cards on the table between us.
Last time, she’d made my mama cry and I’d been out for blood. I’d told her to wait outside, then kicked the door shut with the heel of my wingtip. Just as the flame of my Zippo came to life, the gypsy held up her hands and said, “Wait. Your cards keep screaming at me.”
I’d snarled something about her being a hack and that she wouldn’t get away with conning two Viscontis, especially not on the same fucking day.
But today is different. Now, I’m sitting on the same stool my mama sat on less than a month ago, unease bubbling under my skin. My hand isn’t clutching a lighter but my dice, and I’m squeezing them so hard they’re about to become one with my palm.
“As I was trying to say last time, your card hasn’t been dealt yet. Your fate hasn’t been sealed.” She breathes heavily and rubs her temples. “Yes, they are definitely your cards. They are screaming at me even louder than they were last time. I can barely hear myself think.”
A sarcastic retort brews on my tongue, but I bite it down. Instead, I stare at the two picture cards in front of me.
The King of Diamonds and the King of Hearts.
“Explain it in a way that doesn’t make me want to put my fist through a wall,” I say, as calmly as I can muster. As she starts to speak, I hold up my hand to silence her. “And just because I’m listening doesn’t mean I believe the shit coming from your mouth.”
She straightens her spine. “In my preferred form of cartomancy,” she says carefully, “we believe each soul is assigned a card long before it is brought onto this earth. It’s called ‘Card Calling.’ The cards are often vague, with each suit and value representing the broader meaning or purpose of one’s life. For example…” She reaches for the deck, peels off the top card and flashes it to me. It’s the Ten of Clubs. “If a soul is called to the Ten of Clubs, they’re usually drawn to travel. Perhaps they are destined to work abroad, or will find love in a far corner of the world.” She places the card back on the deck and gives me a tight-lipped smile. “See, vague. But picture cards,” she makes a sweeping motion toward the two cards between us before she continues, “are a lot more specific. They are a direct reflection of who a person will become.”
Impatience bites at my edges. I may have skipped my parents’ wake to be here, but I’m far from a convert. “Why do I have two cards?”
“Because fate couldn’t decide what card to deal you. It’s very rare.”
“As rare as my mother drawing the Death Duo?”
“Much rarer, ‘ she deadpans. Either she didn’t pick up on my sarcasm, or she chose to ignore it. “I’ve never seen it in my lifetime.”
“Mm,” I grunt, rubbing my mouth. “So, I get to choose my fate.” My gaze darts up to hers. “If you believe in that shit, of course.”
She nods. “Of course.”
“And if I don’t choose?”
She shrugs, but the spark behind her eyes belies her nonchalance. “Fate will choose for you in due time.” She leans in, urging breathlessly, “But wouldn’t you rather know? Wouldn’t you rather be in control of your own destiny?”
I do like being in control. My life is regimented; I’m a man of routine. I have a suit for each day of the week and my calendar is blocked out by the minute.
My jaw ticks. It’s hot in this fucking wagon. The wooden walls groan against a gust of wind, and the engine of a super car roars from the direction of the faraway strip.
I’m sobering up, fast.
“King of Diamonds, or King of Hearts. I’m destined to become a businessman or a lover.”
“So you were listening last time,” she says with a smirk. One blistering glare from me wipes it off her withered lips in a second. “But yes. Power and money, or love and a family. It’s that simple.”
I curl my fingers around the dice in my pocket again. “But never both.”
“Never both.”
I swallow. “And all I have to do…”
“Is touch a card to seal your fate, yes.”
I withdraw my hand from my pocket and the gypsy sucks in a lungful of air, a noise that grates down my spine like sandpaper. Last time I was here, my forefinger had been a millimeter away from touching the King of Diamonds. The idea I could guarantee my success as a businessman was obviously horseshit, but I’d considered it for the same reason atheists say a prayer moments before death.
Just in case.
But at the last second, I’d stopped myself. Something had stirred under my rib cage and I didn’t like it. Truth is, I’d suddenly thought of my parents and what they had.
True love. Unrelenting, galvanized love. The type that puts you off your fucking lunch. In the Cosa Nostra, true love is rarer than any supposed Death Duo or whatever. In fact, my parents were the only people I knew who even came close to it. There’s an old adage that a made man only marries for three reasons: business, politics, or to prevent a war. Just like I knew I was fated to be an underboss, I knew I’d marry a woman for pragmatic reasons.
But as I’d stared down at the two cards last time, there’d been a niggling voice in the back of my mind. It’d be nice, wouldn’t it? To look at a woman in the same way my father looked at my mama?
But that was then; this is now. Now, there’s another voice that’s louder, one that’s screaming fuck true love. Now, my parents are six feet under and have nothing to show for their love apart from a cheesy quote etched onto a joint headstone.
Now, my future isn’t so certain, and everything I thought I’d have is slipping out of reach, thanks to my idiot brother.
I’m losing control.
I clear my throat, feeling the gypsy’s gaze bore into me. Screw it. I’m the first to admit I’m getting desperate, and giving into this hippy dippy shit, just once, won’t hurt. I stretch out my fingers, steel my jaw, and touch the King of Diamonds.
The ground doesn’t shake. Fireworks don’t explode in the sky above us. Nothing happens except the flicker of candles and a groan of the wagon.
I smooth down my tie. “Is that all? Or do I need to offer a blood sacrifice too?”
She stares at me, wide-eyed. “That’s all.”
Grinding out a laugh, I rise to my feet, stretching to my full height and casting a shadow over the gypsy.
“You’re bad news, darling. You know that?” I drawl, fishing out a few more bills and dropping them on the table. “I hope you get what’s coming to you.”
It’s her turn to laugh. “You’ll be thanking me when you have the whole of Las Vegas at your feet.”
My dingy casino, with its leaking roof and cockroach problem, comes to mind. “If I ever have Vegas at my feet, you’ll be exterminated along with the rest of the rats.” I turn toward the door.
“Wait,” she says. I clench my jaw, my hand hovering over the door handle. “There’s something else.”
My shoulders form a tight line, and I can’t stop my hands from curling into fists. It’s not in my nature to hit a woman, but Christ, this one makes it tempting. “I’m not interested.”
“You’re not interested in knowing what your doom card is?”
I let out a hiss of air through my nostrils. “You quacks sure know how to upsell, don’t you?”
“Just like every action has a reaction, every fate card has a doom card. Are you familiar with—”
“Stop. Talking.” My throat is dry and my chest is itchy. Nothing but a cold, hard drink will scratch it. “Just tell me the card.”
A beat passes. Then, behind me, there’s a dull thwack that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve owned a casino for almost a year now, and I’d recognize the sound of a playing card hitting a table in my sleep.
Silence hangs hot and heavy within the four cramped walls of the wagon. With a sneer, I roll my neck over my shoulders and glance at the table behind me. There’s a lone card sitting in the middle of it, the flickering candles casting an unsteady glow over its glossy surface.
It’s the Queen of Hearts.
“The red-haired lady,” the gypsy says softly. “Lucky for most, unlucky for a select few. And for you?” She lets out a low whistle. “The Queen of Hearts is detrimental. You could have all the success in the world, but she’ll bring you to your knees.”
I grind my molars together, but say nothing. Without another word, I heave open the door and kick it shut behind me. I stand on the rickety steps and suck in a lungful of mild October air.
Now what?
A smoke will do, for a start. Then I’ll find a seedy bar on a seedy street where nobody knows the name Visconti and I’ll pour one out for my parents. I slip my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around my lighter.
Suddenly, something crackles and pops in my chest. It bubbles out from under my ribs and fizzes gently under my skin.
I drag a knuckle over my jaw and shake my head, amused at my own venomous thoughts.
No. That’s not me.
When I’d vowed to burn down the gypsy’s wagon last month, it was an empty threat.
Still, with the snap of my wrist, the Zippo’s flame dances against the darkness, taunting me with possibility. Explosive revenge is Angelo’s bag, and Gabe, well, he’s proof it’s often the quiet ones who are the most psychopathic. Either of them would burn down this wagon without giving it a second thought, but Mama always used to say I was the gentleman out of the three of us. Your brothers have iron fists, Rafey, but you have the silver tongue and the voice of reason.
As I slide the lighter back into my pocket, my fingertips graze over my dice, and another dark thought seeps into my brain.
Since the old witch has so much to say about fate, I’ll let my dice decide hers. I draw them from my pocket, give them a good shake, and drop them at my feet.
They roll less than half a meter, then come to a lazy stop. I peer over and laugh.
Lucky number seven.
“So be it,” I mutter to myself, loosening the tie around my neck. I slip it off and slide it through the door handles, forming a tight knot.
I bring my Zippo to the tip of it and set it alight.
I’ve never liked wearing ties, anyway.
