“Read ‘em and weep, boys.”
The entire room groaned as Vito fanned out his cards to reveal a full house. He chuckled loudly, sweeping chips, cash, and a couple of watches to his side of the table.
“C’mon, man,” Joey whined. “It ain’t fair you run the game and win every week.”
Saul gave the kid a friendly shove. “Get outta here. You want he should show you his other set of skills?”
Vito winked and fired a fingergun at Joey. “See you shmucks next Saturday,” he said as he slung the hefty duffel over his shoulder. “Hope you’re ready to clean out your kids’ college fund.”
It wasn’t until they packed up the table that anyone noticed Vito had left his leather jacket behind.
Being the youngest, it was Joey’s job to return it. As he walked onto the porch, the sinking feeling in his stomach dropped to his balls. Should he knock? Ring the bell? Is that how you got shot in this business? Maybe some reconnaissance first.
Joey peeked through a break in the curtains. His eyes widened, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to stop a laugh from giving him away before turning to run, already trying to forget what he’d seen. That kind of info on a made man was dangerous.
But the sight of piles of books, colorful multi-sided dice, and a polished horned helmet was forever seared into his brain.
Apparently poker wasn’t the only game Vito ran.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
