Spark

by Aleatha Romig

  There were other names besides Sterling Sparrow that evoked the appropriate respect, names that had been with Sparrow since the fateful night he acquired what had been his father’s and more recently, to the afternoon when the city became united under one name.

  One of those names that garnered respect was mine.

  Patrick Kelly.

  The skinny kid I’d once been grew into a man capable of more than he ever imagined.

  Over the years, I’d moved on from my less-than-humble beginnings. I tended to my body and mind, growing both, refining both, until they were perfected.

  I’d learned that to be truly intimidating it took more than an outward appearance. I had that, being called scary more than once. What was more frightening was a person with a clean shave and trimmed hair in an expensive designer suit and Italian loafers who was capable of the unthinkable. It was the illusion of civility that gave men like me and those I worked with and called my friends the advantage.

  People ran from the boogeyman.

  I was the man they ran toward.

  In some cases, it’s worked out well.

  In others it was a deadly mistake.

  The handsomer the face, the easier it was to deceive.

  No longer a fighter striving to live on the streets, today I was part of the elite, the royalty of Chicago. If Sparrow were a true monarch, I supposed Reid, Mason, and I would be considered dukes or lords, those men appointed at the king’s whim to stand beside and behind him, to risk body and soul for his success, because in doing so, we also ensured our own.

  The three of us had repeatedly proven ourselves worthy of our accession. Today the boy who once slept in gutters and beneath underpasses lived in a glass castle high in Chicago’s skyline. Today along with a chosen few, I ruled the same streets where I once scrounged for food and shelter.

  While Chicago was our kingdom, the reach of the Sparrow name stretched beyond the city limits. Our armies marched throughout the country and beyond. Sparrow wasn’t alone in his level of success. Other cities and other families held power. Nevertheless, each day we worked to expand the Sparrow umbrella, to make nice when possible and topple if necessary.

  One was either the arrow or the target.

  The Sparrow outfit was the arrow.

  My gaze zeroed in again upon the extraordinary beauty across the room—my target—for tonight’s discovery. A ghost from the past, she brought my worlds colliding. My past and present were now both here.

  Seeing her brought life where there had been death. Like a stray spark landing upon the dry underbrush of a forest, being in her presence lit my body on fire. My visceral reaction to her caught me unaware. My heart rate increased and my senses went on high alert.

  It wasn’t simply her beauty.

  Daily, I was in the presence of beautiful, intelligent, and strong women. I respected their fortitude as much as the men’s. Those women didn’t cause my heart to race or breath to catch. The small hairs on my neck didn’t stand to attention nor did my dick wake from its long hibernation.

  As I took in her presence, I found myself both enthralled and somewhat dumbfounded that I was capable of such a visceral reaction. It wasn’t as if I’d lived the life of a monk. I hadn’t. Nonetheless, this was different. She was different.

  I wasn’t near enough to smell her perfume or feel her soft breath upon my skin. Yet from the way my body was reacting, I could be.

  I had been.

  That was before.

  Time was a merciless bitch, stopping for no man or woman.

  I never thought I’d see her again—that it was even possible—and yet with everything within me, I knew it was her when I first saw her. After all these years, she was back in my city as if she’d never left.

  With her death never verified, over time, I had looked for her periodically. Each fruitless search was more confirmation of her demise.

  That was until now, until tonight.

  I entered this conference hall with the intention of overseeing the poker tournament at hand. It was a million-dollar tournament. That kind of money didn’t change hands without Sparrow knowledge. Fate had brought me to Club Regal tonight, to this room.

  The tournament’s purse was big, and the bets being placed even now were impressive. Millions of dollars had come to our city, and I was here as a reminder that taxes were due. It wasn’t that the players per se would hand me cash. The tournament itself would pass on a percentage to Sparrow. It was how it worked.

  Imagine my surprise upon seeing her again after all this time.

  With my errand at hand momentarily forgotten, I was staggered as years of memories flooded my mind along with a myriad of emotions.

  Joy.

  Anger.

  Disbelief.

  Uncertainty.

  Shock.

  Madeline was alive.

  She’d never died.

  As the disbelief faded, I had one conflicting thought.

  Though I would always love her, now I hated her.

  Parts of my mind had forgotten the woman I knew, put her aside. That was then. In the split second of seeing her, my body was reminded of all she’d been, that we’d been. Not many of us made it off the streets. Some died trying. Others died not trying—giving up or giving in.

  Few went on to live in the lap of luxury.

  While I wasn’t certain of her living arrangements, by the appearance of our current surroundings and the stack of $1000 poker chips before her, she did not fear for her next meal. No one could place the monetary bets I’d watched her place—win or lose—without some financial stability. The high-stakes games that occurred on this floor of this private club couldn’t be financed with good looks or credit.

  After all these years, Madeline had returned, not as the pauper I’d known but as a member of the elite in her own right.

  As I continued to take her in from afar, I couldn’t help but marvel at her outward calm. She was a true showman when it came to this arena. In the last hour, I’d watched as she’d won thousands of dollars, make that tens of thousands, and lost equally as large pots. Her dark green eyes, the same ones that haunted my dreams over the years, remained steadfast.

  However, Madeline had her tells.

  I doubted the other players saw them.

  The others were too busy calculating their own strategies of success, or perhaps, mesmerized by her beautiful packaging. It could be the way her raven black hair cascaded over her slender shoulders or her sensual neck straightened.

  My mind tried to process the teenager I had known, comparing her to the woman now before me. Yes, Madeline was no longer eighteen. If my simple math was correct, she was thirty-five—the same age as me—and even more beautiful than I remembered.

  A notable difference now was the amount of makeup she wore. It was too much for my liking. Seeing that didn’t cause me to turn away. On the contrary, it flamed a desire deep within me to strip her of each layer until I was privy to the true beauty beneath.

  Taking a sip of the bourbon remaining within my tumbler, I allowed my mind to fantasize about removing more than her makeup. First would be her silver strapless dress with a neckline that plunged between her round breasts. Each time she contemplated her next move, those same breasts pushed against the fabric as her breathing deepened.

  Yes, I’d noticed.

  While the pressure against the round globes was sexy as hell, it was also too regulated, too predictable. Even the way she tugged at her brightly painted red lip was practiced and perfected.

  A hint of a smile came to my lips.

  Yes, Madeline, I see the real you.

  Once a con, always a con.

  It seemed that now instead of taking advantage of tourists’ naïveté by picking pockets or stealing apples on the crowded streets of Chicago, Madeline had moved on to stealing people’s money in plain sight. A twinge of pride came over me as I observed her progress. There was no doubt that her current targets had more to lose.

  Who was I to
judge?

  My pulse quickened as Madeline folded her cards, smiling at the dealer and the other players. The man behind her helped her with her chair as she stood. I knew from his uniform that he wasn’t with her. He worked for the club. His job was to oversee her chips until she returned. She whispered something to him, handing him one of her poker chips—a $1000 tip.

  He responded with a nod.

  There was showmanship in each move by these high rollers.

  Downing the rest of the bourbon, I handed the crystal tumbler to an attentive waitress.

  “Mr. Kelly, may I get you another?”

  I barely noticed the girl before me. My sights were set on only one woman as my pulse beat in triple time with anticipation. It had been too long.

  “Sir?”

  I turned toward the purple-haired young woman with the tray. “No, thank you.”

  My final sentiments weren’t spoken aloud. They were waiting for the appropriate audience. After all this time, I’m on my way to speak to my wife.

  Madeline

  Standing, I scanned the room, trying to shake the feeling that I was being watched. I didn’t simply mean like every other poker player in the room. Of course we were being watched. A club providing this level of play had security. There were people watching the players and the dealers. It was big business and if word got out that Club Regal allowed cheating, the players would go somewhere else and take their money with them.

  Each of the seven tables was filled with six players and one dealer. There were a few other patrons in the room, no doubt Chicago’s elite. No one else would make it to this floor, much less through the door. Most of the nonplayers seemed preoccupied. This was the first night of the tournament, and there were too many tables and players to be interesting to observers.

  By tomorrow night the tournament would be reduced to five tables and thirty participants. Saturday afternoon, the five tables would be reduced to three. Come Saturday night, one table and six players would remain. That was why I was here, to be among the six elite players, the six vying for the million-dollar purse.

  “Ms. Miller, your seat will be waiting,” the gentleman who was watching our table said.

  I handed him one of my chips. “Thank you. This is for your trouble. I’ll be right back.”

  Looking at the tip in his hand, his smile broadened as he gave me a nod.

  The young girl who’d once lived on these streets would never have comprehended a $1000 tip. That girl was gone.

  A $1000 tip would guarantee my chips remained untouched until I returned.

  Though I’d never been to Club Regal before, I’d been to many similar establishments. There was no denying the ambience around me. The atmosphere dripped with wealth. In my experience, many similar clubs had lost their old-time charm, giving way to a more modern appearance and atmosphere. In comparison to here, the others were sterile.

  Club Regal was famous for the amenities upon the main floor: an exclusive steak house, the Bar Regal, and the Regal Cigar Room. Nothing but the best was stocked for the members. Those elite members of Club Regal no doubt believed themselves to be above others in this city; however, even with that status, not every member made it to the upper level and to this room. The conference room housing the poker tournament had been graced with the likes of movie stars and royalty as well as kingpins.

  This was an establishment where old money talked, and new money was also heard.

  It took connections and/or a reputation to be here.

  My reputation was my ticket.

  I’d played the circuits, working my way up to the elite poker tournaments. Over the years, I’d sat across the table from some of the world’s best players. Kings and sheiks have folded with my bluffs. Of course, they don’t know that.

  A girl didn’t bluff and tell.

  As I made my way between the widely spaced tables and my high heels plunged into the plush carpet, I found myself admiring the rich dark paneling, custom molding, and heavy ornate light fixtures. If either were still alive, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Al Capone or John Dillinger at one of the tables.

  I would bet my life they graced this room and establishment at one time with their presence.

  And placing bets was what I did.

  Winning those bets was my livelihood, my repayment of debt.

  With each step, I scanned the room looking for familiar faces at the various tables. It wasn’t unusual for paths to cross. Derek Daniels and Lindsey Bolton were two I recognized. If conceit were a threat, I’d be worried.

  It wasn’t and neither was I.

  Across the room I caught a glimpse of Julius Dunn. The man loved his picture on the cover of magazines. He didn’t give a shit if it were Forbes or The Sun. He was of the belief that any publicity was good publicity. Most of the articles told of his partying and sexual exploits. If I were to accurately recall, he was on wife six or maybe waiting for seven.

  My neck straightened at the sight of Marion Elliott. At nearly twice my age, he had been a part of the elite circuit since before I found my calling. His money came from big oil and like a bottomless well, he always came to a tournament with an unlimited supply of capital. Fate had been generous, keeping us from ever going head-to-head. If I were to win the jackpot, that would have to change. Of anyone in the room, he was my biggest concern.

  I nodded to a gentleman near the exit, and he returned my nod with his own as he opened the door for my passage. Both sides of the entry were guarded, allowing only the appropriate clientele within. Even making it to this floor didn’t guarantee entry into the high-roller lounge.

  Despite my reputation and success, there was always a small twinge of irrational fear that upon my return, my inclusion would be blocked—the world would see me as the homeless street urchin I had once been in the shadows of this city.

  Just as quickly, I pushed the thought away. Straightening my neck and squaring my shoulders, I reminded myself as well as the world that that girl was gone.

  I’d come a long way since then.

  Chicago was full circle for me, where I’d been born, lived, lost, survived, and where my life took an unexpected detour.

  To say I’d escaped wouldn’t be completely accurate. However, each victory and each win brought me closer to that dream. Stepping into the large landing, I took a deep breath of the cooler air. Step by step, I made my way through the maze of less crowded hallways on my way to my destination. It was obvious that few women made it to this floor; the ladies’ room was less accessible.

  I began to think about the cards. Perhaps it was returning to Chicago that had me off my game. I shouldn’t have lost the last hand and I knew it. The city and its once familiar sights were affecting me in a way I couldn’t describe.

  My mind was on the last hand—one jack of diamonds away from an inside straight flush. The last raise would have been an uncalculated risk. I had more hands to play and more opportunities.

  My lack of focus was a rookie mistake, one I rarely made.

  I didn’t see him until it was too late, until I turned the last corner to the isolated hallway that contained my destination.

  A large hand surrounded my throat as my shoulders crashed against the wall. I struggled for breath as I was lifted until only the toes of my high-heeled shoes connected with the ground. The stench of liquor, no doubt expensive, prefaced his words as his dark, maleficent eyes stared into my own and his gravelly voice growled.

  “You’re down thirty grand.”

  This wasn’t a random assault. I was well aware of my attacker.

  Incapable of speaking, I blinked my response as moisture filled my eyes. Struggling for air, I lifted my hands to the one of his at my neck.

  Mitchell Leonardo was correct; I was down. While most of my losses had been deliberate, I also had plans to rectify the situation. None of that mattered at this moment. My first objective was literally at hand.

  I needed air—oxygen to my lungs, blood, and organs.

  With the
finals two days away, now was the time to create a facade, lull the other players into a false sense of assurance. Mitchell should know that I wouldn’t lose more than was allowed. I couldn’t. There was too much riding on my success.

  “Bitch, you know what will happen to both of us,” he snarled with his lips near my ear, “if you don’t win.”

  My freshly painted nails clawed at his grip of my neck as dark spots danced in my vision. Suddenly, his fingers released their hold. The rush of air was like a blowtorch shooting fire to my lungs. I leaned forward gasping, my knees weak.

  “Stand up now or you won’t be walking back in there.”

  With the fresh air bringing life back to my body and mind, I did as Mitchell said and straightened my stance. Our eyes again met. Instead of mine staring back at him with fear as he’d probably expected, fire and hate radiated from my gaze. My tone lowered as my inflection grew stronger with each word. “You son of a bitch, if you ever touch me again, you’re a dead man and you won’t be walking.”

  “You lose the boss’s money, and I won’t be the one six feet under.”

  “I’m working for the long haul, you idiot.” I straightened my shoulders as I continued my stare into his dark orbs. “I realize you didn’t land this babysitting job because of your brains, so let me dumb it down for you. Those people in there, they are a hell of a lot smarter than the likes of you. They’ve heard of my reputation. They’re testing me. I know what the fuck I’m doing.”

  Mitchell’s lips thinned, forming a straight line.

  “The final games are in two days,” I went on. “Losing now will increase the chances that the other players will underestimate me then. I’m also well aware of how much I need to win to secure my seating for each round.” I separated my words as my determination built. “I have no doubt that I will not only make the final round but also win the jackpot on Saturday, and when I do, the first thing I’ll tell Andros is what you just did. Untouchable. Does that sound familiar?” A menacing smile came to my lips as my head tilted coyly. “Or better yet, I’ll ask him for a favor. You see, he’s quite generous when I bring him winnings. He’ll willingly give me my heart’s desire.”