“Considering you own the place . . . excellent. Let’s get you seated first.”
Glass led them to a table in the center of the room and pulled out a chair for Livia. As she sat, people at the bar turned and noticed Saint for the first time. Someone started applauding—a second later, the entire room followed suit. Flashbulbs popped again.
Saint acknowledged the applause with a wave of his hand and sat down himself.
“Twenty years ago these people wouldn’t let me in their homes. Now they’ll elect me governor.”
“They know a good thing when they see it,” Livia said.
A photographer stepped forward. The
“Mr. Saint,” the photographer said, “could you . . .”
Saint nodded, turned as the man wanted, and posed. Standing beside his chair, Glass shifted uncomfortably.
“Smile for the newspaper, Quentin. It’s the only thing in Tampa I don’t own.”
“Yet,” Glass said under his breath as the flash went off.
Livia was waving to someone in the crowd as well, but her eyes were darting here and there around the club, searching.
“What is it?” Saint asked.
“Where are the twins?”
“Upstairs, I’m sure,” Glass said.
Saint frowned. He’d hoped the boys would make an appearance with him for the papers tonight—though he understood they were both their own men now, maybe a little concerned about seeming too much their father’s creatures, Bobby in particular. Still . . .
He was about to tell Quentin to ask them to come down when he caught sight of a tall, white-haired man at the bar, engaged in conversation with two striking-looking young women.
Seeing him, Howard Saint smiled, and felt his heart beat just a little bit faster.
The girls he didn’t know—he assumed they were among those who had been hired for this evening—social lubricants, as it were. But the man . . .
The man was Robert Chadwick.
Twice the state’s lieutenant governor, in his prime widely considered the most effective politician in Florida, old Tampa money, old Tampa society, his presence here was the closest thing to a benediction from the powers that were as Howard Saint was likely to get.
Saint caught the man’s eye and smiled. Chadwick raised his glass and held it up in salute.
“Bring him here, would you,” Saint said to Quentin.
Glass, who’d been engaged in quiet conversation with Livia, turned, saw Chadwick, and without uttering a word rose from his chair and went to the bar. He spoke briefly to Chadwick, who smiled regretfully at the two young women and followed Glass back to the table.
“Howard?” Livia asked as they approached.
“Your best smile,” Saint whispered, rising to shake Chadwick’s hand.
“Good to see you, Howard.” Chadwick’s grip was strong, his eyes sharp and piercing. Saint held his hand a second, and let it go.
“Join us?” he asked.
“My pleasure.”
Livia gave Chadwick a dazzling smile—her best smile indeed—as he sat.
And right then, despite what had happened earlier with Reston, and then Palmer, despite the FBI investigation and the boys’ absence . . .
Howard Saint had a feeling, a certainty deep down in his gut: luck was with him tonight.
His conversation with Chadwick was going to go very, very well indeed.
TWO
It had to be some kind of sign.
Ace-king in the hole, ace-king on the flop, and now a third ace on the drop . . .
Full house, and the river still to go.
Tonight was the night his luck changed for good. Bobby Saint was certain of it.
“Hey. Just ’cause the game’s called ‘hold ’em’ doesn’t give you call to sit on your ass all night long. Bet’s ten to you, Bobby. You in or what?”
Bobby looked up. Sitting in the booth across from him, face barely visible in the dim lighting of Saints and Sinners’ upstairs club, T.J.—T. J. Archeletta, the man his father had hired to bodyguard (read: baby-sit) him— fanned his own two hole cards impatiently.
“Come on, boy. I ain’t gettin’ any younger, you know?”
Which was for damn sure the truth. T.J. was fifty if he was a day. An old cracker his father had brought down from Alachua six months ago just to keep watch over him, the thinking being that anyone closer to Bobby’s own age might be tempted to look the other way now and then. Not T.J.
For a crook, he was as straight-arrow as they came.
“Just hold on a minute, old man. I’m thinking.”
Thinking about whether or not he should bet heavy now, try to force T.J. out, or play possum for the last card, milk the man for all he was worth. Which wasn’t much. Made him wish that Lincoln and Cutter hadn’t gotten called away. Those two didn’t mind laying out the serious cash.
Though when it came to cash, as he was finding out, serious was a very relative term.
“All right,” Bobby said, reaching for the stack of money in front of him. “I’m raising you—” His cell phone rang. Ignoring the glare from T.J., Bobby pulled it off his belt and answered. “Bobby Saint.”
“Micky Duka.”
Bobby smiled. “What’s the word?”
“The word is go. Pick me up in fifteen.”
“Done. See you then.”
Bobby snapped the phone shut, and looked up to find T.J. staring at him. “What?”
“What’s going on, Bobby?”
“I’m raising you, that’s what’s going on.” Bobby pulled a hundred off the pile in front of him and tossed it into the pot. Time to end this quickly and get out of here.
T.J. frowned and tossed his cards in.
Ten bucks, Bobby calculated quickly. Not much of a pot at all.
“That ain’t what I’m talkin’ about. Who was that on the phone?”
“None of your concern,” Bobby said, raking in the pot as neatly as he could. Duka’s place was ten minutes away, so he didn’t have a lot of time.
“Everythin’ you do is my concern, you know that,” T.J. said. Which was the gospel truth—Howard Saint had assigned T.J. to watch over Bobby, to stay close, and when Howard Saint said to stay close, he meant arm’s length.
Trouble was, Bobby was tired of it. Tired of being treated like a baby, like the bad seed. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t like John didn’t get into just as many jams as he did, but somehow, his brother always managed to find a way out on his own. Not like Bobby, who’d been singularly unlucky in his brushes with the law. Caught with two underage girls in a motel. Caught buying pot off an undercover cop. Caught trying to put out a hit on that same cop, after the cop dressed him down in front of his father like he was a little kid. Only Howard Saint’s connections and a willingness to part with large amounts of cash had kept him out of jail that time.
“So?” T.J. asked again. “You going to let me in on the secret? Or do I have to pull your phone records again?”
Bobby glared at the man.
He was about to tell him to go to hell when a shadow crossed in front of the light. He looked up and saw John staring down at him.
Great. This was all he needed.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” his twin said, looking from Bobby over to T.J., who promptly shook his
