WIN THE GAME
Ketley Allison
Copyright © Ketley Allison LLC, 2018
Visit Ketley Allison’s official website at www.ketleyallison.com for the latest news, book details, and other information
Cover Design © 2018 Okay Creations.
Editing by Madison Seidler
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.
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1 Pot Shot
The scar tissue hurt.
Puckered and pink, it webbed across my lower ribcage. The wound was small, the size of a bullet hole, but as it healed, it stretched and bubbled across my stomach the way lava slowly lurched out of a volcano—hot, burning—until it cooled into the permanent tar that forever altered the landscape it smothered.
The black couture dress I wore didn’t help, its tight lace leaving little room for breath, never mind damaged skin. It chafed at every movement, but none of it showed on my face as I smoothed out the fabric, my fingers calmly running over the itching crater that was now part of me.
I took one last sip from my champagne glass, leaving a rim of blood red as I put it down beside the bottle of Dom I’d had sent up.
I eyed my purse, but decided it wasn’t needed for where I was going. I left it lying across the California king bed, its straps tangled within unmade sheets, my t-shirt and denim shorts I’d worn earlier today also hidden somewhere within the folds.
I stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind me with a soft click, and smoothed invisible strands away from my face, though the French twist was so tight and helmeted down, it stretched my brain.
The elevator doors slipped open as I approached, a couple exiting arm-in-arm, the woman whispering something softly into her escort’s ear. They were well dressed—probably leaving the same gala I was about to enter—the woman in a tight lavender number and the man in a tux. I barely glanced at them as I walked by, but every detail imprinted into my mind. Her wayward brown curl at the nape of her neck, his Patek Phillipe watch, her Jimmy Choos, his wedding ring.
As the doors closed, I lifted my chin, hands folded, all the way down from the thirtieth floor to the lobby. My heels sparked against the tile when I exited, and I pretended not to notice the extended stares cast my way while I headed down the opulent hallway leading to the ballroom. My footsteps passed pure gold, Italian marble, antique seating areas, clean lines, and exquisite taste.
The two uniformed men standing at the gigantic wooden double doors arced them open in unison once I approached. I nodded in thanks and entered into familiar surroundings.
More rich shimmers, clear crystal, and polished silver saturated my view. A small orchestra played in one corner with rounded, silk-covered tables in the center, some with half-eaten plates and others full. Most of the guests were mingling with a few seated patrons peppered throughout. With a price tag of $50,000 a head, I’d stand up only after I ate every single thing on my 50k plate.
I arrived late on purpose, dessert already melting on the painstakingly decorated tables with plumes of white bouquets in gold vases as the centerpieces, and there wasn’t time to dawdle.
I cast a wide net, scanning and dismissing the handsome, the Botoxed, the naturally beautiful.
No piercing blue eyes linked to mine, and I dismissed the sorrow as soon as it came, getting back to the task at hand.
There, in the far corner, closest to the string quartet, stood the man I wanted.
Offers of a drink, or a dance, were politely declined as I rippled through the crowd. I hadn’t thought about where I would’ve been seated had I arrived for dinner service. Possibly I’d have been in the middle, right in the thick of it, throwing back champagne in crystal goblets as I half-listened to the speeches and stabbed my heel at wayward Ferragamos running up my leg.
Eyes, opaque brown, lifted to mine when I arrived. His smile spoke of amused recognition and he lifted his tumbler of golden liquid in a polite hello.
“Scarlet,” he said—purred, more like. “How lovely to see you.”
The midnight blue of his expertly tailored suit somehow deepened his gaze.
“Dominic,” I said.
Dom’s companion, a stunning redhead in emerald—both in fabric and jewels—flicked her attention to me for about a second, then discreetly stepped aside and away, joining another crowd.
“I was about to write you off,” Dom said as he slipped his arm through mine.
“You should know my habits by now,” I replied, allowing him to escort me behind the orchestra. The skilled slide of horse hair against catgut was our percussion as we walked toward a carved wooden door hidden from view from the opulent guests behind us. I recognized “Clair de Lune.”
“After you.” Dom swept out an arm.
We were in another hallway, and soon a secret elevator, opening to a cavern I assumed was for VIPs hoping to escape cameras, fans, and one-night-mistakes they wanted to pretend never occurred.
Dom let me take the lead, and having done this before—in another state, another city, another hotel—I pretended to know which room to aim for. It wasn’t smart to ever look stupid in front of these men, even doing the simplest of tasks.
Dom’s footsteps slowed, and I pricked an ear at the change, coming to a smooth halt.
“Here we are,” Dom said with a curve of his lips. He swiped his entry card and we were in.
The smoke hit first, the semi-sweet char of cigars and masculine exhales. It curled unseeingly against my bare arms and tantalized my nostrils. The clinks were next, large cubes in tumblers, glass and ice clashing. Then came the suits, the tuxes and loosened bow ties, the light dew on foreheads, and the thrown back, relaxed stance of some as they handled their chairs the way I was sure they handled their mistresses.
“A seat’s waiting for you at table two,” Dom said near my ear.
No music softened these walls, nor even a stray voice. Every sound, every tic, muted in this room, save for the satisfying clack of clay chips on felt tables.
I followed Dom’s direction and took the last remaining empty chair at the second of five tables. Seven men sat around me, and somehow, they managed to make this section even quieter once I entered their crosshairs.
“Buy-in’s twenty-thousand, honey,” a man directly across from me said.
My suppressed eye-rolls were long overused, and so I offered him a wink, then deftly sank my fingers into my cleavage and pulled out a roll of hundreds. Running my tongue across my top lip, I unsnapped the elastic and let the Washingtons fan out before I laid them onto the stack in the center.
His swallow was his only tell of insult.
The dealer had already collected my buy-in and replaced the cash with chips. I ran my finger across a stack of them before sitting back.
My mark was two men to the left. Mostly muscle, carved from the coal brought up from mines and an Italian heritage, he sat with confidence, providing a one-nostriled snuffle every time he had a bad hand. It wasn’t obvious, a quick scrunch that, had I not been keeping him in my periphery, I wouldn’t have noticed. Now that I had, I used it to my advantage with large calls and virtually zero checks.
Neri Sebastiani paid me no mind as he focused on his cards. He remained unflinching at my large bets and, when it ended up the two of us on a hand, he used the continued monotone he reser
ved for cocktail waitresses and dealers alike.
I wasn’t doing well. In fact, I was sucking astronomically. This wasn’t normal, but tics didn’t dare mar my expression. Quirks of the lip were far from appearing as I continued down the river, becoming brash, utilizing my confidence, until all I had left was $500.
Out of $20,000.
Soon, that too was gone. I allowed myself to take a $5,000 credit from the house, and six hands later, I also blew through that. I gestured for another $5,000.
The dealer side-eyed me, and if the others could literally smile with their gazes, they would’ve. Fresh meat, they were thinking.
“I thought she was meant to be a challenge,” I heard the man beside me say. A middle-aged white guy dressed in tailored precision, with his fly undone. “But she’s just another of Dom’s fish.”
“You know who I am,” I said loudly to the dealer. His thin beak of a nose turned up at me like he was a butler at Buckingham Palace. But he did as I asked and stacked two columns of chips in front of me after nodding to a man in the shadows with his laptop open.
Thirty minutes later and despite the two loans, I wasn’t able to beat Neri or any other man at this table. This was a record for me.
After another hour, I found myself $40,000 in debt. If I continued to play, I’d only put myself further in the hole with the House, which was the last position I should be in. Dom collected money owed, and he did it hard. You did not want to be on the chum end of the loan sharking business.
The gut-swirl of disappointment was brutal, but I tipped my head and said, “It’s been real, boys.”
“There’s no need to exit gracefully yet. You have two hundred left,” Neri said in a low, buttery voice. The first time during this entire night he’d addressed me.
He had a light African accent. Rumor had it that, while his father was Italian, his mother was from Kenya, and she taught him the meaning of protecting family. If that meant using your bed post as a spear or your blanket as a garrote, you always made sure to stand in harm’s way for those you loved.
I paused halfway between rising, understanding the note of warning. With $200 left in chips, I couldn’t simply forfeit. There was an old saying in poker: all you need is a chip and a chair. I had less than the small blind left, but I was still forced to put it up and go into a hand, because in this next round, I was the small blind.
This made me look very stupid.
“Small blind is five hundred,” I replied. I clearly couldn’t afford it.
Neri lifted his chin. “Perhaps you have something else to offer in addition to the two hundred you have left.”
I sat back in the velvet chair and crossed my legs, mimicking the move I so carefully perfected a few hours earlier in my hotel room. The slit of the dress fell open, showing a line of calf muscle. “What did you have in mind?”
I had no car in my name, and definitely no house or other assets. All I had was my denim shorts and knock-off Chanel purse thirty floors above. Any money I made was reinvested to protect my cover. This dress was a rental.
The rest of the table remained silent, some attention on my cleavage, some on my legs, but most were focused on Neri.
Neri puffed at his cigar, his full lips curling over the tobacco leaf. His silence left me enough time to notice that, while his bowtie had been undone about an hour ago, his clavicles sparkled with the sweat of mental effort.
He let out a smoke-filled exhale before he said, “You.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“You can offer yourself into the pot.”
I stifled a laugh. This long in the business, I should’ve shown surprise, but honestly, this was the least of what I’d been propositioned.
I’d heard about Neri’s predilections, his weakness for young, blond women. He liked them so much, it usually didn’t take more than $50,000 to get an unsuspecting woman to say yes. All cash. The balm to all our humanly woes.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
Neri tapped his cigar. “Do I strike you as a man who jokes?”
“You’d like me to whore myself out.”
“If you want to say it that way, then fine. But if it means you stay in the game, that is your choice.” He leaned forward, cigar tilted between two fingers. “I can see it in you.”
The men around us weren’t about to argue against Neri’s wishes. What Neri said, he meant, and anyone contradicting him usually lost at least a nail bed.
“Play with all you’ve got,” Neri said with a smile. His teeth flashed white.
“I believe I have.” I gestured to the pot, now empty. “And I went into the red.”
“So, then.” Neri flicked ash into the ashtray. “Go into the black. The unknown.”
My lips parted. Neri was closer to the truth than he could’ve imagined. I loved this room, these cards, the money. I wanted it all, and to stay in the game, I had to risk it all. At least, everything that remained.
Mumbles came from the tables around us, the clatter of drinks hitting trays numbing my ears as Neri’s proposition snaked its way over my moral compass. My chair was jostled by someone walking by. A muffled apology by a familiar voice followed, but I ignored it.
“Only for one night,” I said through the ringing in my ears. Then, to further add concrete to my words, I said, “I’ll put myself into the pot.”
2 Cocky Jade
“There we have it.” Neri splayed out his hands, grinning wide. He settled his cigar on the ashtray.
The rest of the players weren’t nearly as blasé. They sat, stunned, until Neri’s gentle warning of “play, play,” had them throwing their chips into the center.
I was given two tens—the ten of clubs and the ten of hearts.
The men placed their bets, and I did as well.
The flop came down: a ten of spades, ace of spades, and king of diamonds. I inwardly grinned—not daring to do anything outwardly. This made me ahead in the hand, since I now had three tens.
Another round of betting commenced, four men folding, and another turn came. The four of hearts, a meaningless card for this hand.
The remaining men folded, all except for Neri. I didn’t have to put anything in the pot, since figuratively, I was in there. I didn’t fold. A light sheen of sweat coated my brow, but I refused to draw any attention, instead remaining impassive, bored. I had a strong hand. My chances of taking the pot was high. I shouldn’t be nervous. I had all of this handled.
The final card turned.
Five of spades.
My heart plummeted. The urge to brace against the table and vomit was strong, the desperation to heave even more so. But placidly, delicately, I showed my hand.
Calculations streamed through my mind, probabilities of the cards Neri could hold, the hand he could have.
Neri wasn’t one to brag or smile. Ivory flashed between his lips, the quickest showcase from a winner I’d ever seen. He had the king and queen of spades.
A flush.
“So.”
I looked up from my spread and into Neri’s sharp gaze. My mouth was too dry to swallow.
He smiled. “It looks like you’re mine.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I’d just played myself. Literally.
“You may leave,” Neri said, wagging his fingers my way. “I will call you when I would like to begin your services.”
I stood on shaky legs, the heavy lace of my gown swinging against my ankles. There wasn’t any point in giving this man more information as to where I could be found. Before I’d entered this room, he’d have known where I was staying, how much I had in my bank account, my passport number, and my social security information. He was in charge of this room, this hotel. This city.
“Yes,” I said, demure, avoiding the piteous gazes of the men around him. They were probably thinking this little girl actually wanted to take on the don. And win. At the very least, he took my pride. At worst, my body.
But there was no taking involved. I gave it all t
o him.
I walked away, head high, though my fingers rubbed too hard at the scar beneath my bodice, and I almost flinched. But I made it out of that room and through the gala without a pitch in pace, and with blurred vision I rode the elevator to my floor and silently padded through the carpeted hallway, my heels spearing nothing but cotton.
Digging around my boobs, I found my room key, swiped my door open, and entered into the darkness.
“You are fucking out of your mind.”
I startled. Might as well have clutched my figurative pearls when the voice spoke from my bed, his form in muted glow from the floor-length windows that allowed Los Angeles to enter the room.
I covered up my surprise by pulling off my heels. “Next time, don’t elbow me in the neck when you pretend to trip over my chair.”
“You refused to wear your earpiece.” Kai flicked on the bedside light. “It was my last-ditch warning to get you to realize your moron bet and get out of there.”
“Well, here I am instead.” I peeled off my dress, clad only in my underwear as I strode to the bathroom to wash off my make-up. I left the door open because I assumed Kai would just break it down if I tried to lock it.
“What possessed you?” he asked, following me to the edge of the carpeting.
I made myself busy rifling through my cosmetics bag, daring a glance at the mirror. Kai’s mouth was grim. “You truly think Trace is here. Sharing a bunk with the Italian-Kenyan mob boss, Neri Sebastiani.”
I spun around, a bright pink makeup sponge in my hand. “Is that not why you came with me? Why you let me infiltrate one of the most popular underground games around?”
“To find Trace Saxon, I know. With your talent,” he continued before I could argue, “we’re nearer to scouting him than we’ve ever been, but putting yourself in danger, allowing yourself to go to that psycho-killer’s house without any backup, was not part of our deal. So now we have to figure out how to get you out of it.”
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