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You dirty, rotten liar.
I shake myself clear of those thoughts and lean against his desk, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows I don’t remember seeing from the main floor of the casino’s pit.
It takes me a moment to realize that they’re one-way glass. I can see out clearly, but no one can see in.
The office is set just high enough to see everything that goes on in his glistening kingdom of wine, women, and winnings.
It also gives a decent view of the bar, where Demyen confidently strides up to Martin and interrupts the interrogation.
Even at this distance, I don’t miss the looks exchanged between the bartender and Demyen, who doesn’t waste time and immediately plasters on his best“How can I help you before I hurt you”grin. Sharks look more approachable than he does.
Martin seems to wince, just for a second. I almost feel bad for him.
Honestly… I do. I truly do feel bad for him.
In a single night, he lost his girlfriend, his daughter, everything that made home “home” to him. I stole his little girl from him without so much as a written warning. He didn’t know where to begin looking for us; he only found the link to Demyen by pure chance. And he’s going through so much trouble to find me. He actually seems worried about me.
Shit.
Did I make a mistake?
I bite my lip as the tears start to sting my eyes. I feel terrible. I mean, we did love each other, right? I wouldn’t be with him if I didn’t…
But then something Demyen says flips the switch. Martin lashes out as much as the law and police regulations will allow him to in a public space, his finger in Demyen’s face as spittle sprays from his enraged, twisted mouth.
I step back, my lungs constricting. I’m a floor up and he has no idea I’m here… and yet I’m reacting to that familiar glare as if he’s standing right in front of me.
No. I made the best decision for us. For myself and for Willow.
Demyen calmly straightens the sleeves of his jacket as security steps in and respectfully pulls Martin back to a safe distance. I recognize those “security guards.” I’ve heard Demyen refer to them as “vors”, and while I have no idea what that means, it’s clear it involves loyalty and protection even against police detectives.
I let my attention slide across the floor. He’s got Martin handled and I don’t need to worry about it.
Something in the pits grabs my eye. Someone vaguely familiar laughing and sliding chips across a green velvet table. He nods jovially at something another player says and pulls one of the escorts standing near the table onto his lap. She giggles and playfully smacks his hand, but he grips her ass with that hand while his other reaches up to roll the dice along her cleavage.
I look away. I don’t need to see the lechery of Demyen’s guests. But I can’t resist taking another look.
Iknowhim from somewhere.
Is that…?
A pair of men in dark suits approach the table and the man suddenly grows serious. He slides the escort off his lap, nods forone of the concierges to gather his chips, and turns to discuss business with his associates.
That’s when I get a better look at him.
That’s when I remember.
Raizo.
I suck in a sharp breath and glance over to where Demyen is pointedly avoiding Martin’s barrage of questions. He’s got that handled, but does he know who else is in his casino? Does he know the Yakuza don is drinking his champagne and gambling with his money?
I’m no expert in organized crime. I can’t tell mafia from Bratva and I didn’t even know there were so many different terms in the underworld until I started cleaning Demyen’s home and overheard snippets of conversations.
But I know about the Yakuza.
And I know Raizo Watanabe.
It was years before I put two and two together. Truth be told, I met Raizo long before I learned about his people and his career choices. I was a little girl and he was a handsome man who exuded power whenever he entered a room. The fact that he would enter my living room or the kitchen, unannounced yet welcomed by my mother, seemed odd but not particularly remarkable.
