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Gabriella
The underground poker halls in Atlantic City look very much like the ones in New York. Same cheap furniture, same too-bright lighting. This room is in the back room of a nondescript Italian restaurant. Every time someone opens the door, I smell pizza.
The bouncer at the door is huge. His bushy eyebrows come together in a frown as his gaze rests on me. “You’re Gabriella?” he asks suspiciously. “Sammy’s girl?”
I nod. His eyes fall on my handbag and he bristles. “No personal effects,” he says. “No phones, no cameras. There’s a closet you can put it all in.”
If shit were to hit the fan, I won’t be able to call Carter. I’ll be on my own. I look around as discreetly as I can. There’s about twenty people in the room. Mostly guys, but reassuringly, there are other women here; I’m not the only one. One of them, a well-dressed woman in her fifties, notices me looking around and walks over. “Bulldog,” she teasingly scolds the bouncer. “Are you frightening her?” She gives me a friendly smile. “I’m Vittoria Vitale. And you’re new.”
“Gabriella,” I reply, omitting my last name.
“You’re Spanish? You don’t sound Spanish.”
I’ve been asked this question a thousand times. “My father is Brazilian,” I reply. “I grew up in London.”
“Ah, that explains the accent.” She nods, content that she has me sorted into a neat category. “What are you doing in Atlantic City?”
If it comes up, be open,Carter had told me earlier. If you act cagey, people will assume you have something to hide.
“I’m here for work,” I reply. “You know Nicky Z? She’s doing a series of shows at the Grand River. I’m her publicist.” I definitely sound like I’m bragging. “I’m going to be here through her run, and I used to play a lot in New York, and so…” I shrug my shoulders.
Vittoria’s eyes narrow when I mention the Grand River, but as I continue to speak, she seems to relax. “Have you caught the show?” I continue, pretending to be an eager, slightly pushy PR rep. “It’s really spectacular.”
Her lips thin into a barely-there smile. “My husband is in the process of buying the Grand River. I’ll watch the show when he’s done.”
I have a lot of practice maintaining a poker face—that’s the only reason I manage to keep my expression neutral. This seemingly friendly woman is Denton Mitchell’s wife. I need to be careful and not let the fact that I know Carter and Dominic slip by accident.
“Join us,” she says. “It’s so refreshing to see a woman playing poker. I get weary of the testosterone.” She gestures to a table where a game is in progress.
I don’t know how to get out of it, and, from my quick scan of the room, Ed Wagner isn’t here. Ah well. I might as well get warmed up while I wait for him. Giving Vittoria a warm smile, I allow myself to be tugged.
Strangely, I’m not flustered. I’ve spent many years in rooms like this. Here, I feel at home. Here, I belong.
I get a thousand dollars’worth of chips. Vittoria raises an eyebrow. “Assistants are better paid than I’d realized.”
She’s already noticed my watch—her gaze settled on it during our conversation. There’s no avoiding the giant elephant in the room. “My parents are rich.”
“Ah.” She’s readjusting her mental assessment. She can’t quite decide if I’m a too-keen publicist, or if I’m a wealthy dilettante. Ignoring her struggle, I take my chips and turn toward the table she’d indicated. Despite Vittoria’s statement about not wanting as much testosterone, there are three guys seated there, in addition to two women. They look up at our approach. “Everyone,” Vittoria says. “Meet Gabriella. She’s going to be playing with us tonight.”
“Hi,” I say, surveying my competition for the night. The two women, Vittoria’s friends, have paired sequined tops with yoga pants and heels. Two of the guys—their husbands, I think—are in athleisure too. The third guy is a wildcard. He’s wearing a plaid shirt and faded jeans, and he looks completely relaxed. He’s either a professional, or he’s got money to burn. Neither scenario is particularly good.
There’s one empty seat at our table.
The dealer doesn’t look a day over eighteen. “Another few minutes and we’ll get going,” he announces.
He’s waiting for the tables to fill. I nod in acknowledgment and engage in polite conversation with the people at my table.
Five minutes later, Ed Wagner walks in.
I don’t know what I’m expecting. I’ve seen two photos of Ed. In one, the booking photo Carter sent me, he looked bleary-eyed and dazed. Dominic had sent me a different shot, and in that one, he’d been staring down at his kid, his expression tender.
But photos are never a substitute for seeing someone in person, as anyone who’s swiped right on a promising dating profile can tell you. Up close, Ed Wagner, a blond man with a thin face and hazel eyes, looks tired.
He’s also older than I expected. Looking at him under the unforgiving fluorescent lighting, I’m guessing he’s in his forties. Carter’s in his early thirties and his sister Chloe was a twin, which makes her at least a decade younger than Ed. Ten years isn’t a huge age gap, all things considered, but it’s notable. Maybe this is part of the reason Carter’s so angry with Ed. Maybe he thinks Ed led his sister astray.
This situation is filled with unknowns.
Earlier this evening, in the elevator, I’d tentatively broached the topic with Carter. He hadn’t snapped at me—a possibility that I’d braced for—but he also hadn’t exactly answered my question.
