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What does it matter? They’re paying you to play. This situation isn’t any of your business. Just win some money, pay Sammy off, and focus on your own goals.
That’s easier said than done. I can tell myself not to get involved, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s already too late. Like it or not, Dominic and Carter are more than just guys I’m planning on having casual sex with. I like them. I want them to be happy.
Oh dear.
The dealer raises his hand in greeting as he walks up to our table and takes a seat. “Ed, long time no see.”
That’s a lie. Ed’s a shill; he’s here all the time. Which means either me or Plaid Guy is the mark. I harden my focus. The last time I’d played in an underground room, I’d lost big, and my pride is still stinging. Carter told me he’d cover my losses as long as I played here, but I’d prefer not to have to take him up on it.
Time to focus on the game.
Lady Luck beamsdown at me, as if she’s trying to make up for the other night. I win and win again, and I’m up twelve thousand dollars in no time at all. Vittoria’s male friends make faces and mutter things under their breaths. Whatever. It’s not my fault they assumed a woman wouldn’t know how to play poker. Plaid Guy and Ed take their losses with better grace. Plaid Guy looks inscrutable, while Ed drowns his sorrows in drink after drink.
Or at least, he pretends to. This is the evidence that Carter sent me here to find, but I’m skeptical. I’m not sure Ed’s drinking any alcohol at all.
My conviction that he’s faking grows over the course of the night. Ed plays loose, and he’s drawing out Plaid Guy, getting him to make bigger and bigger bets. He’s trying to draw me out too, and if I hadn’t been forewarned by Carter and Dominic that he was a shill for the house, I would have taken the bait. Ed Wagner might have been forced to work for Denton Mitchell, but there’s no denying he’s good at what he does.
His voice is getting louder and more animated with each drink. His arm gestures grow more expansive. Plaid Guy buys the act, because he decides to go head-to-head with Ed. When it’s his turn, he takes a look at the cards in his hand, and then at the rest of us, and slides a thousand-dollar chip into the middle.
Far too rich for my blood. I set my cards face down with a wry shake of my head. “I’m out.”
The dealer turns to Ed Wagner expectantly. Ed surveys his cards, tosses back the contents of his glass, and then carelessly tosses some chips into the pot. “I’m going to raise.” He lifts his hand to catch the bartender’s attention. “I’ll have another rum-and-Coke, Mark.”
Yeah, he’s dead sober; I’d bet my last penny on it.
Plaid Guy raises again. The pot grows—there’s over thirty thousand dollars at stake. Vittoria folds, as do her friends. It’s only Ed and Plaid Guy, who is finally starting to show signs of nerves. Sweat beads on his forehead, and when he tosses his chips into the center and calls, there’s a tremor in his fingers that he can’t quite conceal.
Ed drops his cards on the table. Pair of aces.
Plaid Guy slams his cards down and surges to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. “This is bullshit,” he snarls, his mask of composure stripped away. The hair at the back of my neck stands up, and every instinct warns me to get the hell away from here. Plaid Guy went from zero to snarling rage far too quickly for my comfort. “This is fucking bullshit.”
Conversation dies down instantly. The room becomes so quiet that if a pin dropped in that moment, you’d hear it. Heads swivel to watch the confrontation, and more than one person looks openly nervous.
Bulldog materializes next to us, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. “Is there a problem here?”
Plaid Guy seems to flip a switch. He goes very still. “No,” he says, eerily calm all of a sudden. “There’s no problem. I was just leaving.” He tosses the dealer a hundred-dollar chip, and heads out. It’s only when the door shuts behind him that I finally breathe again.
Vittoria breaks the silence first.She laughs, a high, brittle sound. “Well,” she says. “That was dramatic. Mark, I think we could all use a smoking break. Gabriella, do you smoke?”
I unclench my fists and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I haven’t smoked in more than ten years,” I reply. When I was sixteen, a rebellious teenager in London, my mother had caught me with a pack in my jacket. Shit had hit the fan, bigtime. My mom yelled and my father looked bemused, until he realized he needed to yell at me as well. Normally, that kind of parental disapproval would have just made me dig in my heels, but then my mother wisely made me smoke the entire pack at once. I felt so gross by the time I was done that I’ve never smoked again.
“Good for you,” she replies. “I keep trying to quit, but it doesn’t work.” She shrugs philosophically. “See you in a few.”
I get to my feet and walk over to the bar area. “What would you like?” the woman behind the counter asks me.
“Just a club soda, please.”
She hands me my drink. I drink it at the bar, keeping a discreet eye on Ed. He’s retrieved his phone from Bulldog’s closet and seems to be checking his messages. Then he heads outside.
On impulse, I get up to follow. So far, I haven’t done much by way of spying. This is my chance to fix that. Ed’s pretended to be tipsy for much of the night, gulping down one rum and Coke after another. But a regular glass of cola looks exactly like one with booze in it, and before I tell Carter his brother-in-law is drinking again, I want proof.
Conveniently for me, the women’s washroom is near the exit. If I hear anyone approach, I can always duck inside.
I stand just inside the outer door and do my very best to listen. I hear nothing. Damn it. I crack it open, just an inch. Luckily for me, Ed’s not far from the door. “He had a nightmare?” he demands, his voice clear. “Is he asleep now?”
The person on the other end of the line says something. Ed nods. “Put him on.”
He’s calling to check up on his kid. Huh. Carter thinks Ed is a terrible parent, but is he right? Or is he letting the ghosts of the past interfere with the present?
“Hey buddy,” I hear him say to Noah, his voice softening. “Mrs. Khan tells me you had a bad dream.”
He listens to his son, his face serious. “I’ll be back home soon,” he says, reassuring and calm. “Yes, Mrs. Khan will read you a story. Just one, okay? No, you cannot eat ice-cream in the middle of the night. Nice try though. See you in the morning, kid.”
He’s not drunk. Not even a little.
I finish the night with twenty-nine thousand dollars in my pocket—Carter’s ten thousand, plus my winnings—and one sobering realization. Carter’s not going to be happy about this.
