by M. S. Parker
The quiet, dark-haired man on my left took three cards, then scowled. A pair of sixes.
I looked down at the cards in my hand. A ten and a Jack of diamonds. Three of a kind in clubs. I couldn't beat Stanley with what I had, so I could either keep it and bluff, fold and cut my losses for this hand, or I could trust that nothing had distracted me and ask for three cards.
I thought of Anthony and looked at the pile of chips on the table. If I took the risk, I was only a couple of hands away from ending the game and getting my nephew back. If I folded or if I was wrong, Stanley would win the current pot, but the game would keep going even longer.
I handed over three cards and tucked some hair behind my ear. I usually swapped around my style, and since I knew that the stress of the situation would hurt my ability to maintain the same expression for hours on end, I'd decided to go to the other extreme with excess tells. I played with my hair whether the hand was good or bad. Chewed my bottom lip. Smiled at four of a kind one time, and then at a pair the next. Frowned when I had a straight and when I had a flush.
As I accepted my new cards, I braced myself for something unexpected, but they were exactly what I needed to make a straight flush with a nine, ten, Joker, Queen, and King of diamonds.
The insults the Puerto Rican sent my way weren't anything I hadn't heard before and were easy to ignore. The quiet guy, however, leaned over and grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard enough to make the bones grind together.
I gritted my teeth against the pain and glared at him. I had enough shit to deal with; I wasn't interested in whatever this guy's problem was.
“No one's as lucky as you've been,” he said, a dangerous edge to his words. “I heard you walked out of two other games this month with big wins, and the only way that happens is if you cheated.”
I kept my gaze steady. “You think I'm hiding cards? Take a good look at what I'm wearing. No sleeves. No collar. And my hands have been on the table the whole time. You want to roll up your sleeves so we can see if you've got something up them?”
“I'm no cheat,” he said coldly.
“Neither am I.” At least about that, I was telling the truth. Casinos might've thought of counting cards as cheating, but I never had. Using one's natural intelligence and talents to keep track of an entire fifty-two card deck was no more cheating than someone who had a knack for deceit and used it to bluff. That was my opinion anyway, though I doubted he'd share it.
“This is my game,” Stanley cut in. “And I'm losing to the bitch too, but if I don't say she's cheating, then she ain't.”
The quiet man kept staring at me for half a minute more, then released my wrist, giving Stanley a bored glance before settling back in his chair.
I pulled the chips toward me, pretending that my wrist wasn't throbbing. The man's fingers had left marks on my skin that I was sure would end up being bruises, but I wasn't worried about that. My own safety only mattered as it connected to Anthony. As long as he was okay, nothing else mattered.
As I watched the cards being dealt yet again, I made a promise to myself, and to whoever or whatever force was listening, that I would never put my family in danger again. When this was over, I would do whatever it took to make amends, even if it meant my brother never speaking to me again, never being able to be around my family. I deserved whatever consequences came as a result of my actions.
I'd go back to Cambridge, start an honest life back there. Or maybe someplace new on the East Coast. Boston or Philadelphia maybe. I'd take whatever job I could find. Throw myself into doing some good with the gifts I'd been given.
“I think we need a new deck,” the quiet guy announced.
“I say when we change decks,” Stanley said flatly. “If you've got a problem with how I run a game in my own house, then maybe you should cash out and get the hell off my property.”
One of the goons behind the quiet guy took a step forward, and immediately, the room was thick with tension. Two of Stanley's guys came forward, all bulging muscles and thick, meaty hands. Panic tried to claw its way up my throat. If something happened to Maverick, I'd never get Anthony back.
“I'm fine with switching decks,” I blurted out. Stanley turned to glare at me, but I forced myself to continue, “If it gets him to shut up and play, I don't see why it's an issue.”
Everyone was looking at me now, but I kept my eyes on Maverick. No one was supposed to know we were working together, which meant we had to play this carefully. If it looked like he was giving in to me, then the others could get suspicious. But if he refused, things could get ugly with the quiet guy.
“Okay,” Stanley said after several excruciating seconds. “I got a couple new decks I've been wanting to use. One-of-a-kind designs so nobody can try nothing fancy.”
Almost nobody.
“Works for me,” I said. “I have nothing to hide.”
The quiet guy scowled but leaned back in his chair.
“Fuck, man, let's just get this going.” The Puerto Rican sounded annoyed. “If I'd wanted to sit around all night listening to some mamaos, I'd have hired a couple whores, so I'd at least get my dick sucked.” He leered at me. “Unless you're going to do that for me, tipa.”
I bit back a smart retort and instead spoke to the table in general, “Let's get this new deck going. I have more money to win.”
Stanley held out his hand, and one of his thugs handed him a deck of cards. The dealer took it and started to shuffle. I let myself close my eyes for a moment to try to refocus my thoughts. I was getting tired, but I knew better than to let anyone see it. I had a job to do, and I intended to see it through.
I opened my eyes and watched the first two cards dealt out. Before the third one had time to hit the table, people outside the room started yelling. I froze, a thousand possibilities rushing through my mind, each one worse than the last.
A business rival had decided to take Stanley and his entire operation out.
One of the other players had called in reinforcements.
Zombies were attacking.
Then I realized I could make out the words people were yelling and knew it was so much worse.
The police were here...and I'd just killed my nephew.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dean
“You can't do this!! Please, listen to me!! Please!!”
When I'd insisted on going with the police to the club where they planned on arresting Stanley Maverick, I'd been told in no uncertain terms that I was there as a courtesy. Fortunately, Juliette had contacts high up in the police department, and she'd had no problem throwing her weight around.
Especially when we all knew there was a good possibility that Kyndall was there.
The anguished yells coming from inside the nightclub told me that I'd been right. I ignored the cop assigned to stay with me and ran toward the sound. The other officers I passed shouted at me to stop, but nothing short of divine intervention was going to keep me from getting to Kyndall.
“You don't understand! Please!”
“You need to stop, or I'll have to make you stop.”
A cop yanked an overly-muscled man in handcuffs out of my path, and that was when I saw Kyndall, tears streaming down her face, arms behind her back, pleading with a stone-faced cop. He yanked on her hands, nearly pulling her off her feet.
“Back off!” I grabbed his shoulder, just barely stopping myself from yanking him away from her.
He gave me a hard look. “You're going to want to take your hands off me right now.”
“Dean!” She was sobbing now, the most heart-wrenching sound I'd ever heard. “Anthony. Maverick has Anthony and now they arrested him, and he's not going to tell them where–”
“Anthony's okay,” I interrupted as I stepped around in front of her.
Her eyes were still wide and wild, and I could see that she wasn't hearing me. I grabbed her upper arms.
“Look at me.” I kept my voice low, but firm. “Anthony is okay. He's safe.”
She sto
pped struggling, her gaze meeting mine. I watched awareness dawn, and then her shoulders slumped. Her head fell, and the officer behind her took a step back.
“He's okay?”
I reached out and hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her head until I could look at her face. “He's okay. The police found him. Juliette and Dalton are meeting him at the hospital so he can get checked over.” I brushed my knuckles across her cheek. “He's safe. You're safe.”
She nodded, then looked over her shoulder at the cop behind her. “I'm sorry, Officer. I won't fight you anymore.”
It hadn't hit me until that moment that she was being arrested. I'd seen the cuffs and the cop, but I'd been focusing more on getting through to her than anything else.
“Why is she cuffed?”
The cop's eyebrows went up. “Because this is an illegal poker game being run by a kidnapper with known ties to organized crime. Everyone's getting arrested.”
I shook my head. “Not her. She was here under duress.”
“Above my pay grade.” He shrugged.
“It's okay, Dean,” she murmured.
All of the fight had gone out of her, and as much as her earlier pleas had broken my heart, this was so much worse. This wasn't sexual submission or an emotional vulnerability between two people who cared about each other. Her fire, her confidence, had vanished, and she looked beyond sad. She looked...broken.
“It's not okay.”
She raised her head, but wouldn't look at me. “It's my fault that I'm in this position. My fault that Anthony was kidnapped. I wouldn't waste your time.”
I ignored her for the moment. First, I was going to get her out of those handcuffs, then I'd work on the guilt issues while we were on our way to the hospital.
“She's the informant who led the cops to Stanley Maverick.” I tried again. “You can't arrest her.”
“Look, James Bond, I don't know how they do things across the pond, but here, we don't let private citizens tell us who we can and can't arrest.”
“How about the DA?” A woman's voice came from behind me. “Do I get a say?”
The cop sighed. “What are you doing here, Mueller?”
Aramina barely glanced at me as she stepped right up to the officer, but I didn't mind. We'd met only once and under very different circumstances. “Detective McAllister called me and said that we were taking down some bad guys.”
“Those bad guys.” I pointed toward the men who were being led out of the room. “She's not one of them.”
Again, the woman ignored me. “Kyndall Letlow?”
Kyndall nodded.
“District Attorney Aramina Mueller.” She held out a hand, then dropped it with a wry grin. “Right. Let's get her out of those cuffs.”
“No offense, but she got caught up in a raid. You don't have the authority to release her,” the cop said mulishly.
The DA's eyes narrowed, and I was suddenly glad that she wasn't looking at me that way. I had a feeling she was the sort of prosecutor who chewed up defense lawyers for breakfast.
“I'm the prosecutor handling this operation, so if I tell you to uncuff someone, you do it.” She took a step closer to him, eyes flashing. “And if I tell you to do the damn waltz, then you do the fucking waltz.”
The officer skulked off as soon as Kyndall's cuffs were off, muttering some less than complimentary things under his breath, but the DA didn't even blink.
“You didn't need to do that,” Kyndall said, turning away as I tried to put my arms around her.
I frowned. I knew there were a lot of people around, but I would've thought, after the day she'd had, that she'd want some comfort.
“Actually, I did.” Aramina glanced at me, then turned back to Kyndall. “I've been working to get Maverick behind bars for a long time, but we can't ever get anything to stick. You're going to change that.”
“Whatever you need,” Kyndall said immediately. “Just tell me.”
“What does she receive in return?” I asked, earning an appraising look from Aramina.
“I don't need anything,” Kyndall said. “I'm the one who fucked up to begin with.”
“Everyone fucks up one time or another,” Aramina said. “I'm going to ignore any charges for being involved in gambling, which probably would've been impossible to prove anyway, and you're going to testify against Stanley Maverick for blackmail and kidnapping.”
Kyndall nodded. “Of course.”
A movement caught my attention, and I looked down to see Kyndall cradling her hand. A flash of anger went through me.
“Did that cop hurt you?” I reached for her hand, and she jerked it away. But not before I'd seen the finger-sized bruises on her wrist. “I'm going to kill that son of a bitch.”
“It wasn't him,” she snapped.
“Then who the hell was it?” I growled the question, my patience stretched to the breaking point. I took a step toward her. “Kyndall...”
“The asshole in the snazzy suit, okay?”
I started to turn when the DA took a half-step into my path.
“You can't do that, Dean.” Aramina looked up at me. “What kind of DA would I be if I let you go after a suspect?”
I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure I could manage a polite response, but I knew she was right. Besides, I needed to take care of Kyndall.
“Can I go?” she asked suddenly. “I need to see my family.”
Aramina nodded. “Of course. I'll expect to see you at the police station tomorrow to give your statement.”
Kyndall nodded, already walking toward the door. I caught up with her just as she stepped outside.
“Are you sure you're all right, love?”
“I'm fine. Just want to see my nephew.”
I cut in front of her. “I'm serious, Kyndall.” I started to reach for her, but she took a step back. “I just want to take care of you.”
She shook her head, finally looking up at me. Her eyes were haunted. “I don't deserve it, Dean. None of it. I just have to see that Anthony's okay for myself, and then I'm staying as far away from everyone as possible.”
She walked around me, leaving me staring after her.
Fuck. No.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kyndall
I trusted Dean when he said that Anthony was okay, but a part of me still wouldn't believe it until I saw him for myself.
If Dalton and Juliette even let me anywhere near him.
A sharp pain went through my heart, far surpassing anything I felt in my throbbing wrist. The handcuffs hadn't helped, but I wasn't going to complain. I deserved it. I deserved so much worse.
Dean wasn't making things any easier. He kept wanting to hold me, to tell me that it was all okay. He wanted to comfort me, but I didn't want that.
No, that wasn't true. I wanted it. I just wasn't going to accept it.
Once I confirmed that Anthony was okay, I was going to leave, and giving in to Dean now would only make that harder. I was through thinking of myself first. I had to protect the people I loved.
And I did love him. I'd been reluctant to use that word, thinking that if I simply said I cared about him, or even that I was falling for him, it would keep things from getting too intense. It hadn't.
He was quiet on the ride over to the hospital, but I didn't think for a moment that he was going to let things go unsaid between us. I stared out the window, not trusting myself to be able to look at him and not give in to the solace he offered.
Two squad cars were parked near the emergency room entrance, and the sight of them made my heart skip a beat. I believed the DA when she'd said she wasn't going to have me arrested, so it wasn't fear of incarceration that sent my pulse racing, but rather the recent memory of what I'd experienced when the cops had come bursting into the room less than thirty minutes ago.
I hadn't cared that they were arresting me, only that Stanley had shouted out that I'd made a deadly mistake. Something in me had snapped at that point, and I'd started screaming that
they had to let me go, that they didn't understand what they'd done. No one had listened to me, of course, but that hadn't stopped me from begging everyone to stop. Common sense would've told me that it wouldn't have mattered if the police had decided at that moment to walk away, that Maverick wouldn't have honored his promise to me, but I'd been so far beyond common sense at that point, I couldn't recognize the reality of the situation.
I'd barely registered Dean's arrival until he grabbed my arms and forced me to look at him. Still, he'd had to repeat what he'd said before it'd started to sink in that Anthony had been found. Even now, it continued to feel like I was in some sort of dream. A nightmare that I couldn't wake up from.
Dean did the talking when we got inside, and a minute later, we were walking past another cop, and into a small room where Dalton and Juliette were on either side of a bed. The moment I saw Anthony sleeping peacefully, the emotions I'd been holding back broke through, and I let out a small sob.
Dalton stood, and I waited for him to yell, to tell me how I'd put his son in danger, how I needed to leave and never come back.
Instead, I found myself wrapped in his arms, my face pressed against his chest, and I didn't have the strength to pull away. I could hear Juliette and Dean talking quietly in the background, but at that moment, all that mattered was that Dalton didn't hate me. It was possible he didn't know my role in what happened, but for the moment, I would take what he had to offer.
My tears soaked his shirt, and the knot in my stomach eased some with the release. He didn't say anything, and for that I was grateful. Eventually, my crying stopped, and my breathing became less ragged. The sounds and smells of the outside world came in, and I knew what I had to do.
I took a step back, wiped my cheeks, and forced myself to look up at my brother.
“I am so sorry.” My voice cracked. “This is all my fault.”
Dalton started to shake his head, but I didn't let him argue with me.
“You don't understand, that man only came after Anthony because of me.” I needed them to know everything, so I let it all pour out. “I started gambling at MIT, first to show off, and then because it was easy money. I liked it. By the time I was nineteen, I was at a poker game a week, counting cards, and earning more than any of my classmates were at their regular jobs. That's where I got the money for the apartment. When I decided to stay here, I knew I could either look for a real job or keep playing. I didn't want to stop. The first game I went to, Stanley Maverick was there. I cleaned him out, and he was pissed. Then I did it again the other night. That's why Maverick took Anthony. To force me into playing for him.”
