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I know I can be reckless, but until tonight, I would have argued till I was blue in the face that my risks were calculated. How could I let this happen?
My knees tremble as I get to my feet to settle up. Sammy knows me well. He’ll give me credit, he has to. He’ll let me play off my debt, won’t he?
“Gabriella,” he wheezes. “Rough night.”
Sammy’s two enforcers stand on either side of the door. One of them looks like a low rent version of Elvis, with sideburns and slicked-back black hair. The other is bald, like Sammy. Standing the way he is, with his arms folded across his broad chest, he reminds me of Mr. Clean.
I don’t know their names, but their work is legendary. Busted kneecaps are their stock in trade. It’s amazing how motivated you can get about paying Sammy when your ability to walk is at stake.
I take a second to collect myself. “I need some time to pay, Sammy,” I murmur, my throat dry.
“Of course, of course,” Sammy agrees with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You are one of my regulars. One of my favorite players. For you, an extension is no problem.”
Fake Elvis licks his lips as he leers at me, and I repress my shudder. “Thanks, Sammy. I just need a couple of months.”
“Months?” He laughs incredulously. “I’m a businessman, dollface. Even if you sweeten the pot,” he says, his gaze raking my body, lingering on my breasts, “I can’t wait that long. But I like you. Two weeks.”
On a different day, I would have snickered inwardly at his term of endearment. Dollface. Sammy can’t be much older than fifty, yet he talks like he grew up in the forties. But not today. Today, all my brain hears is the amount of time I have to find Sammy his money.
Fourteen days. One hundred thousand dollars.
I’m absolutely fucked.
