Page 72 of The Bratva King

I smile. “I’ve been to New York, sure. Who hasn’t?” I gesture around the table at the other two players. “Place your bets, gentlemen.”

The man at the end of the table pushes his chips forward, but he’s still watching me. He’s reading me. Can he see my pulse pounding in my throat?

I tell myself I look nothing like her. Gabriella has black hair and expensive clothes. Thin. Perfect manicure. I’m blonde. I’m twenty pounds heavier. I’m wearing a casino uniform and flat shoes. Short nails. Little makeup. I’ve spent five years becoming someone else so completely that some mornings, I forget what my own face used to look like.

I’m not the mafia princess I was five years ago.

“Jersey, maybe?” he says. “Did you spend time in Jersey?”

I look at him, and this time, I let the smile fall for just a second.

“I grew up in Ohio,” I say. “Columbus. Go Buckeyes.”

He smiles again. “Right.”

I hear Greg’s voice in the back of my head.

Trust your gut, Gabby. Logic will talk you out of it every time. Your gut doesn’t lie.

My gut is screaming.

I deal the next hand, keeping each breath slow and even as my gaze shifts to where security should be standing.

The nearest is Joel. I’ve worked alongside him enough times that we’ve developed a shorthand. A look. A gesture. The signal that means I need someone removed from my table.

But his focus is on a drunk couple making a scene at the roulette table.

Fuck.

“Have you worked here long?” he asks.

“A while,” I say.

“You’re good.”

“Thank you.”

I settle my hand near the shoe and scratch the felt twice with two fingers. The eye in the sky will see. He’ll tell Joel.

It’s taking every ounce of self-control not to panic and run. That’s what he wants. To keep pushing until I give myself away.

I glance up. Joel touches his earpiece, then his eyes lock on mine. He’s coming. Thank God, he’s coming.

The man at the end of the table studies his cards. Or pretends to.

“Thank you for the game,” he says from behind him. “I’m going to need you to come with me, sir.”

The man turns his head slowly. He looks at the security guard. Then he looks at me. There’s nothing hostile in his expression. No surprise either, which is the part that makes my stomach clench.

Most people are surprised. Or pissed.

“Of course.” He picks up his remaining chips and slides off the stool without being asked.

He doesn’t look back at me as Joel guides him away.

Not again. I don’t want to run again.

18