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INTRO
I’ve been counting cards the whole night. Maybe it wasn’t one of my best ideas to follow my friend to an underground poker joint in Itaewon, one of the most touristy places in the whole of Seoul, South Korea. I guess being a foreigner doesn’t help either. At least they think I can’t speak Korean, when I’ve been listening to the fuckers at the table talking shit about my game the whole night—not so much ‘shit’, more like they hate that they’ve been losing to the chick who looks like she doesn’t belong here. Okay, I don’t—well, a quarter of me does. I don’t look the part, but my grandpop moved around the world before settling in Vancouver after the Korean War, where he met my grandma. The only tell that I have some Korean in me is people don’t look at me twice on the subway. I kind of blend in, sort of. Fuck, I don’t know. What I do know is that my friend is currently trying to pick up one of the waiters, and I think she has a shot with the guy, while I’m knee deep in shit.
It all started when he walked in. The man sitting across from me wearing black from head to toe like me. A Valentino three-piece suit by the looks of it. What can I say, I’m a little extra, I know my way around the Gangnam shopping area. His dark eyes flash to mine for a second before he focuses on the cards in his hands again, and my stomach swoops, all from a one second stare. This is all it takes to make me lose track of the cards and my sanity. Who wouldn’t with his long, dark, slicked-back hair that almost reaches his shoulders.
He resembles a freaking K-pop idol or an actor. His skin is flawless, and those brown eyes draw you in. Even with an angry looking scar running over his right eye, down to the side of his mouth, the man is gorgeous. I’ve been trying not to steal a glance, but he keeps staring at me. Like he can’t figure me out, like I’m dirt under his shoe. His disdain for me is obvious as hell. I don’t belong here. Yes, I know I don’t, but beggars can’t be choosers. So, here I am, wearing my oversized shirt and pants, with Vans underneath. I look like a college student, and luckily people still ask me for my ID, so I think I’m kind of nailing the whole ‘I’m twenty-six’ instead of ‘I’m almost thirty’ routine.
I sigh and stare at my cards. What am I doing here? I should be at my apartment finishing my paintings. One of the things my grandpop handed down to me, my Korean heritage and being an artist. A broke one, nonetheless. Why didn’t I become an accountant or something, instead of trying to sling my paintings around this city for petty cash? I roll my eyes as I glance at my cards while I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. I’m technically not a real artist, but a struggling one. I couldn’t pay rent if my grandpa didn’t gift me my apartment near Seokchon Lake, a stone’s throw away from Olympic Park. I tap my fingers on the cards—I should work more. I know I can find a gallery to exhibit my paintings. There are enough of them around town, enough rich people live in this city who can buy my art. A part of me knows I can make it, the other is scared shitless of what might happen when I do. It takes one buy, one person who believes in me that will make the word of mouth in this city spread like wildfire. And then I’ll be set.
I hear a snort and glance up, staring straight into the man’s eyes. He raises one scarred brow a little and holds my gaze for a second. Damn it, why is it so quiet in this joint? I look around and see we are the only two left, except for the muscle man guarding the door, and the dealer whose hands are shaking a little. Even my friend already left with the bartender. No phones at the table, so I can’t know for sure, but we’d agreed if she met a cute guy, she would go for it, no questions asked. I guess tonight was her night.
“Are you done?” he asks, his English accent cute and dark somehow. Fuck this, I need to be committed. Or I should fold. I focus on my cards, a straight flush. But I stopped counting cards the second he sat at the table. I was having such a good time, and nowI’m knee deep in fucking shit. I shouldn’t have come here, this isn’t Tazza. My grandpop loved the movie about a card player, and he taught me the game. I should have stuck to it, poker is a whole different ballgame. But when you are about to lose your house because your ex-boyfriend took out four credit cards in your name, in order to pay for his failing company, you resort to desperate measures. He left me with a hundred grand of debt, so coming here was my only choice. I might go to jail once I win, because I am winning, I think—I hope. I need to, or else I’m dead. Based on the glare in the mafia guy’s eyes, he could snap me like a twig if he wanted.
“Are you done?” he repeats. Damn, the sound is deep and husky. It’s the kind of voice that makes you take off your pants and panties with lightning speed, and say, “do what you want with me, I don’t fucking care.” Take me now. Fuck, those eyes lock with mine and I start to blush. The man is like a cat the way he moves. I stare at him some more, he kind of takes after a back alley cat, or a tiger waiting to strike.
“What do you mean?” I croak, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but decides against it. I get a feeling he likes that I’m scared of him.
He pushes his chips toward mine and raises the stakes. Shut the front door, I need to raise and call his bluff, else I’m going to lose everything. My friend paid the buy in, she’s part of one of the rich families in Seoul, and a rebel. Probably why she likes me, I’m the same, expect I’m broke and about to lose a hundred grand I don’t have and my apartment all in one go. I bite on the inside of my cheek and he shifts in his seat, tugging at the collar of his black dress shirt as he loosens his black tie.
“Damn, is it hot in here?” I ask the dealer at our table, the only one who stuck around, plus the muscle guy handling the nondescript door. Both look at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am. But not as much as the man sitting across from me. There is an arrogant air hanging around him, like he knows he owns the world and isn’t afraid to go after anything he wants.
He sits back and runs his thumb over the corner of his lip. The side of his mouth twitches as he stares at me, then at his cards. Does he have a better hand? I’m trying to go over the cards in my head, fuck, I don’t know. Fifty-fifty chance I’m in deep shit.
“You don’t have the money, do you?” he asks, his deep voice going right to the place which hasn’t seen any action in a long time. I press my knees together, and he watches me closely. He pushes his chair back and widens his legs, manspreading to the max, his black dress pants stretching across his muscular thighs and the place between his legs I shouldn’t be trying to steal a glance at.
“I’m…” I begin, losing my track of thought. My eyes drop down, zeroing in on the impressive bulge there. Shit, fuck. I lick my lips, and he grunts. When our eyes clash, a thrill runs through my body, one I haven’t felt before. I’m scared and turned on at the same time. Not the response I should be getting. I’ve watched enough mafia movies and read enough dark romance novels to know what happens to people who don’t pay their debt. They get a one-way ticket to concrete ville. But I’ve come this far, I can’t back down. I call and place my cards on the table, no way he can have a better hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I do know I’ve won.”
He snorts and runs his fingers through his hair. His hands are big, sexy and veiny, but the silent treatment is getting on my nerves. He flips a chip between his fingers and keeps staring at me, holding his head a little to the side.
“Too bad,” he says the moment I lean forward to start collecting my winnings. I can finally start to pay off the debt hanging over my head. I can continue living here, teach the kids and paint at the park. My luck is finally turning around, maybe because of the angry looking guy sitting across from me, but whatever. Money is money, and I’m about to win a shit ton of it.
He says, “Hold up,” in Korean, and I freeze when he places his cards on the table. Those eyes catch mine, and when I look at his cards, I want to dig a hole and disappear. A royal freaking flush, damn it. No, I lost. I’m going to lose everything, I think as tears fill my eyes.
At this exact moment, the man guarding the door walks up to the scarred suited-up villain and whispers something in his ear. He nods and the muscle guy returns to the shadows, blocking my only exit. His bodyguard grimaces, the corners of his mouth turning down—I’m screwed. The mafia guy’s eyes lock in on mine while he cracks his neck. Shit, I don’t know his name. He leans forward and glares at me while sweat breaks out all over my body. Why does it feel like he owns the place as my eyes dart around the room? We’re the only ones left, now it all starts to make sense. Why was he allowed to join the table when we were halfway through the game? Why was everyone so respectful to him? Why do I feel like my life as I know it is over?
“My security told me your friend who left with my number one bartender bought you in,” he states. The way he taps his fingers on his impressive legs tells me he’s trying to get his anger under control. I can feel it radiating off him, scaring the shit out of his doorman, and me, in the process. The burly guy takes another step away from us until his back molds against the wall. And I can’t do shit, only stare at the mafia guy’s plump lips. And think about how beautiful he is. Those dark eyes flash to mine—yes, this is it, I failed miserably. Why is my throat suddenly dry?
“Nod if you understand me,” he orders, his voice a little hoarse.
I nod, what the hell is this ‘fifty shades of I’m about to get fucked and not in a good way’? The man is scary and hot at the same time. Why do guys like him always have scars? I read a book once where her stalker installed security cameras around her house so he could watch her every move, didn’t he have a scar? Seeing it in real life is hot as hell. Now I think about it, he looks like a K-drama actor, or was it a K-pop singer? Keep it together, Storm, focus, before you get thrown out with the other general waste.
“He also told me you have a debt of a hundred grand,” he rasps, his deep voice making my toes curl in my shoes.
I nod again, and frown. Hold up, how the hell does he know?
“You do know I own this place and many others like it, right?” he asks, sounding annoyed.
I shake my head, my tongue glued to the inside of my mouth.
He swears under his breath in Korean, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m not going to tell him I can understand what he’s telling me, sort of. You can learn only so much from K-dramas and 1500 phrases you should know if you’re a K-pop fan.
He sighs and crosses his arms in front of his ample chest and leans back in his chair. “You are never going to pay me, right?” he asks, sounding bored out of his mind.
I shake my head and he slams his fist on the table. His whiskey spills and the bodyguard runs over to clean up the mess, but he raises his hand, and the muscle guy leaves the room as well, like the dealer before… shit, where did he go? The less witnesses the better, I guess.
“What can you possible give me?” he snarls.
“I have…” I whisper, not making eye contact with him.
