My fingers roll the dice around as I stare up at the guy, my feet crossed on top of my desk while I lean back in the chair. Fucking idiot. Standing there with his silencer aimed at me as his body quivers and shakes. Threatening me? No one threatens me. No one fucks with me, angers me, or gets inside my head. I’m a ghost of a human, forced that way by a father who built the enterprise I now run.

“You gonna shoot then?” I mumble as I scroll through my phone. I haven’t got time for this shit. I’ve got other meetings to get to, deadlines to deal with. I glance over, taking in his offensive crumpled suit and then travel my eyes to the barrel. “Is it even loaded, Benny?”

Benjamin Mazarono. Low life scum who occasionally runs packages where packages shouldn’t be run to. Today, he wants a larger cut of the 20K he’s just dumped at my feet. He’s not getting it. He can take his chances killing a Cane, see how far that shit gets him when he walks back out onto the streets of Chicago, if he manages to get past Rody on the door. He glances around becoming flustered by my antipathy at his attempted threat.

“Didn’t think it through, did you, Benny?” If he hadn’t snorted some of my goods up his fucking nose it might have helped him see more clearly.

I kick my feet from the table and pull out the only thing that’s going to make this situation fuck off so I can get on with my day. He blanches, his body sidestepping as I round the desk and lift my own slice of heaven at him, the other hand still spinning my dice.

“I just want some more fucking money, man.” Man? I’m not his man. Not his friend either. I’m his fucking boss, or his boss’s boss. I sneer and aim somewhere near his head.

“Pick a number, Benny.”

“What?” he snaps, his hand juddering as he raises the other one to keep the silencer’s aim a little more level.

“Two to twelve, pick a fucking number.” I step into him, crossing my red carpet and causing him to move backwards towards my office door. My fucking office. Not my father’s anymore. Mine. He dares come here into my space with a fucking shaking hand and threaten me? I should suck his heart out for that alone. “Pick a number before I pick one for you.”

“Quinn, man. This ain’t. I didn’t mean...” He scrabbles his legs a little further, the polished wood of my pristine panelling getting closer to him by the second. Two to twelve, that’s all he’s got now and the meaning of those numbers. When I roll these cubes of ivory in my fingers, fate has its say. If this dick chooses the right number, he gets a reprieve. If he doesn’t, game on.

“Quick, Benny.”

His eyes widen as he watches me toss the dice, the small white flashes saying so much about his life chances as they go. They all know this is how it works. A flick of the dice and it’s all decided. They tumble down and bounce over the floor, little black dots spinning around, ready to make decisions I have no interest in making.

“Four,” he splutters to the sound of his back hitting my wall.

I keep watching my dice, waiting for them to stop and give me a direction to travel in, until I hear him lever the trigger. I’ve pulled mine before he has a chance to finish his stupidity, still watching my little cubes bouncing and tumbling as I listen to the grunt that comes from Benny the dead. The fucking things land on a pair of twos before I’ve noticed the fat slob slide down my mahogany panelling.

How’s that for bad luck and fuck all timing?

“Should’ve given fate a chance, Benny,” I say as I slide the ivory cubes from the floor. “Shame.”

The door clicks and opens, Rody finally making an appearance at the sound of a shot. Bit fucking late if you ask me, but he’s part of the old team, and I haven’t got a hope of getting rid of him unless I kill him myself.

“You okay, son?” The term makes me glare at him, maddened by his continued use of it. Son. He lowers his face and looks at Benny’s still corpse. “I was out front.”

There’s hardly any guise of a son here anymore. Brother maybe, carer for my mother, too, but not a son. I lost that accolade when I killed the first client my father told me to. I became a Cane then. A man.

I rub at my scar, remembering the sensation of the knife that dug in around my neck. It still burns, reminding me to always watch my back. No one ever goes behind me anymore, not unless they’re strung up and incapable of causing damage.

“It’s alright, Rody.” It is. He’s too old to be protecting me anyway. I should have a new version of him guarding me now, not my father’s has-beens hanging around, no matter how much they know the business. “Get rid of him. I’ve got to get home.”

I slip my slice of heaven into my holster and pick up my phone, grabbing my jacket on the way.

“What about his kid?”

“What about him?”

“He’s thirteen.”

“The dice roll to twelve, Rody.”

That’s answer enough for me. Twelve or below would have meant something to me, might have given me reason to do something about ensuring he was set up right. Thirteen? Well, that’s past those combined numbers. Thirteen is a man, the beginnings of one. Little Mazarono Jnr can go blow dick to eat, or learn a fucking craft like the rest of us had to. Hell, if he came here and asked for it, I might give him his father’s job.

Rody frowns at me as I walk to the door, my father’s eyes glowering out of his sockets. Screw him. I’m not my father. Times have changed. We live in a world where drugs and computers rule now, not mafia connections and the charm associated with them. It’s about time the rest of the old school caught up. Marco Mortoni for a start, whom I have meetings with soon. He should take over like I have, bring his father’s enterprise into the 21st century rather than have it linger under decrepit control.

“Son, you…” I stop in front of him, daring him to call me son just one more fucking time. “Quinn. He’s a child.”

“There’s no conscience here, Rody. I’m not my father. You give him something if you’re so bothered about the little shit.”

I’m unconcerned about the fate of children. There are thousands of them out there. I’ve got my own shit to deal with—for a start, the routine task of visiting my damned father.

The streets take less time than you’d think. When you’re a Cane, rules mean nothing. We’re above them. Stop signs? Fuck that. Speed? Fuck that, too. Cops? I snort as one watches me jump a red, the wheel of my Corvette turning in my hands, and then swing the other way undaunted. Most cops are in our pockets. They were there when my father ran the business, and their children and partners are still there now. I pay them more than they’ll ever earn legitimately. That’s what my business means to me. It has to. Money laundering, drugs, gun running, casino deals, and bent fucking everything. We don’t know what straight is. That’s my life. Has been since I was fourteen, even before that if you count the private schools my father sent me to from his illicit earnings. It’s why these dice keep rolling in my hands, keeping the decisions as easy as that. Conscience and morals mean nothing against keeping this business floating. Decisions do, and I make the hardest ones on the roll of the dice, never letting the outcome affect me.

The phone rings, Jonathan Hannover’s name flashing.

“Yeah?”

“We have some problems here, Mr Cane.”

“What?”

“For a start, there’s a hundred thousand down on a debt. Although, Shifty says he’s on that one.” Is he? I steer the next streets, listening to the sound of my dice rolling in my hand and thinking of the green fields of home, my real home. I might live in Chicago, but England’s where I grew up until Father moved us here, and Cane began in earnest. “Mr Cane?”

“Run the rest off.” There’s a sigh, followed by the manic tapping of a keyboard.

“The Colbort deal is still up in the air.” Preston fucking Colbort, pissing around with the new casino he should be handing over to me in London. The revelation that he’s not holding up his end of the deal pisses me off instantly. His family need a reminder of who owes what to whom? “Pinchin’s on point. The money is still good there.” Drugs. Never a problem to offload. “The boys are still running funds through Stepstone Travil, although that’s becoming a tad perilous and I wanted your opinion on what I should do.” A tad fucking perilous. The Britishness makes me snort. High-end dicks with their accents, pretending they're not as dirty as we are over here. “One million is a lot to syphon through.”

“A tad?” I laugh. He huffs and taps his keyboard again.

“This is quite serious, Mr Cane, it’s becoming difficult to manage due to the continued amounts. The CID are investigating locally and I can’t see another wash viable. When your father was–”

Fuck my father.

“You’re paid enough, find another route,” I cut across him, following the gravel drive up to the house and scanning the grounds. “Either that or I’ll roll my dice, and you can take your chances like your brother did.” The sharp intake of breath proves my point. Do or die. No one lets us down. Your family gets in our bed, it fucking stays there. “What’s the hundred K for?” I pull up to the main house and open the door, engine idling ready for the chauffeur to clean it.

“It’s a girl. Gambling debts.”

Large gambling debts for a girl. The thought intrigues me, but not as much as the idea of Preston Colbort not handing over the casino he offered as collateral for his unpaid debts. Or the fact that the Hannover family can’t manage my money correctly.

I walk to the house, my eyes scanned by the security system before I take the steps up to a formal marble entrance, then cross the expanse to Father’s home office so I can pull up the spreadsheet Hannover’s looking at.

“Where’s Colbort?” The laptop’s open the second I pull it from the hidden safe, codes already inputted before I’ve sat down at his highly polished wooden desk.

“He’s in London at the moment, planning to travel to Monte Carlo next week for his wife’s thirtieth birthday party.”

I scan the documents as he carries on telling me of the other ‘issues’ we have to talk about. Fucking issues. A hundred grand is the least of my problems. My mind works the numbers, spreadsheets and tracking opening up inside me like a cyclone. They’re my thing—numbers.

By the time I’ve processed the fuck ups he’s incurring, I’ve slammed the laptop closed and rolled my dice across the desk.

Seven.

“I’ll be on the plane tonight,” I snap out, infuriated by his inability to manage the one thing he’s supposed to. There’s another intake of breath, followed by the sound of him getting up from his too comfortable chair.

“Mr Cane, it’s been difficult these last few months.”

“Has it?” I couldn’t give a damn how difficult his life is. It’s about to get a whole lot simpler.

My hand scoops up the dice and I head out of the panelled room, straight for my father who’s waiting for his weekly update on my damn money.

“It’s the continued amounts, Mr Cane. I can’t funnel it anywhere. It’s getting messy.” I cross the extravagant lobby again and head for the stairs, buttoning my suit jacket and pocketing the dice.

“Set up a meeting with the girl.” She’ll fuck her debts off if nothing else. Shifty can do it while I eat dinner, entertain me for a while. “And I want to see Mitch Warner of Stepstone at your office. I’ll give you a reminder of how Canes do business. Your father understood it well enough.”

“Yes, Mr Cane.”

The call ends with my finger shutting the phone down. Father doesn’t like phones, thinks they’re all bugged. This one’s not. Nothing I have is bugged, this house included now. The security company we own ensures that with daily sweeps of the house and grounds. Two permanent staff monitor all the extensions and movements, along with the ten other staff who keep their eyes on everything and patrol the grounds. It’s fully computerized now, not like the archaic system I inherited when he told me to take over. I’m in control of all this. That’s my job here now. I am Cane, regardless of my father’s refusal to accept that fact or his old boy’s denial. Without me, this whole sordid little enterprise of ours would fold and be burnt to the ground. Stolen from beneath his dying chest. It’s me who moves this beast along. Me who steers its next course of action. Me who keeps it as powerful as it is.

I wind my way along the lavish halls, directing myself towards the room I fucking hate and clicking my shoulders ready for the meeting I’ve got no interest in.

I hate him.

I hate what he did, who he is, and what he made me become because of it. But mostly, I hate that he’s made me enjoy it, enough so that I’m far better at it than he could ever have been. Cane was nothing but a small link in a Mafia chain when I arrived and took over. It was bound by constructs and loyalty I no longer care to honour. Now it’s a global foundation for deceit, lies, and corruption. Stronger for it. I fucking did that, made us what we are now. Quinn Cane. I can’t even blame him anymore.

I fucking despise him for that.