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“Matt, but he got Serge’s approval.” I meet his eye, unwavering. Cocky. “We want to make some money.”
The doorman grunts, a slight smile lifting his lips. “I hope you’re prepared to pay up.”
“Won’t need to.” I give him a wink and drag Hannah through the door. “I never lose.”
I catch his amused expression as he shuts the door behind us. No doubt Matt sold us well—I get the impression he’s been expecting us. Now we’re in what looks like the bowels of a commercial building—concrete walls and concrete floors and more concrete above. A tag in black spray-paint is the only thing that breaks up the endless grey as we walk toward a door at the other end of the hall; the only one that’s not marked with a sign. Hannah’s heels click and the sound bounces around us.
“You good?” I ask her as we make it to the unmarked door, and she nods. Her eyes flick to mine and stay there for a moment, but she says nothing.
Should I know, somehow, if she’s carrying my child? Should there be some instinctive certainty in my gut? I have so many questions, and I’ve been bottling them up for the past week. But worse than the questions is the niggling feeling that Iwantto know what’s going on...and not so I can manage my exit.
I like Hannah. A lot. And the more times I say it in my head, the stronger the feeling gets. Since Lillian, I haven’t been with another woman who made me question the way I lived my life. Who made me reconsider what I wanted for my future.
Except her.
Hannah is a balm for my soul and at the same time, she’s a prickle under my skin. I can’t shake her. I don’t want to shake her. But I don’t know how to navigate it because the only thing I’ve ever been good at is running away and starting over.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says under her breath as she follows the same knocking pattern we used outside. “You’re making me self-conscious.”
If only she knew how far beyond sex and attraction this was.
You could tell her that...
But I can’t. Not right now, when we’re walking into an environment we can’t control. Tonight, though, I’m going to lay things on the table. I don’t have any promises to give, but I want to at least be honest. I want to do the one thing I’ve never wanted to do before—talk about the future.
“You’re my wife, why wouldn’t I look at you like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“Touché,” she says softly. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s in my head.”
Before I can respond, the door is pulled open. The contrast from the harsh, grey corridor to the inside of Sergio Benedetti’s gambling playpen takes me aback. It isn’t quite as sleazy as I’d thought—there’s music and the walls are a rich red, covered in old-fashioned wallpaper with a faint print like one might imagine of a speakeasy. There’s a heavy chandelier in the middle of the room and tables set up with everything from blackjack to poker to mahjong.
We’re greeted by the guy who grabbed Hannah’s arm the day we caught Matt and Serge together, and he wastes no time in sliding his gaze all over her body. My fists bunch by my sides and I have to fight the urge to crack this guy in the jaw. But Hannah reaches down and slips her hand into mine, the gesture bringing me back to earth in less than a second.
I regret bringing her here, having her be in harm’s way.
“Welcome,” the beefcake says. “Serge isn’t here yet, but he’s looking forward to meeting you in more polite circumstances.”
Polite? I want to scoff.
“The feeling is mutual,” Hannah replies smoothly, squeezing my hand. “But for now I’d love to see how the cards will treat me.”
“What’s your poison?” His eyes aren’t quite on her face.
“Blackjack. And champagne?” She offers him a coy smile and he immediately signals for a guy in all black.
We’re shown to a table with three other people already seated—a woman in a red dress and a sparkling necklace, and two dark-haired men in suits. They appear to know one another, but the woman is playing alone. Hannah slides into the empty seat and I stand behind her, one hand protectively on the back of her chair.
We’d agreed up-front that Hannah would play most of the games. After a few practise runs, it was clear she could hold her ownmuchbetter than I could. I’ll survey the room. Our guess was that if she tried to walk around, she might get approached, but I will be able to move around less noticeably. Given there were probably fifty-something people in the room and I could count the women on one hand, it appears our assumptions were correct.
But the thought of leaving her here, alone, fills me with an ice-cold dread. This room is a viper pit. The men running the show are standover guys, hired guns who couldn’t give a shit about the lives of the people inside. All they care about is the money. About making sure the house wins.
“Welcome, Mrs. Essex,” the dealer says as Hannah exchanges her money for a stack of chips. He knows our names. Interesting. “It’s a pleasure to have you at my table.”
Hannah nods. “Thank you.”
“Please place your bets into the betting square in front of you. This table has a thousand-dollar minimum.”
I immediately sense the tension in Hannah’s posture. This minimum bet is much higher than we’d anticipated, and our budget from HQ won’t stretch that far. So I lean down and place a hand comfortingly on her shoulder, as though whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
