“Wow, how many of you are there?” I ask.
“More than two,” she says tantalizingly. “And we’ve been all over the world doing this. Vegas is one thing, but I’ve seen so much more. Montenegro, Nepal, Monaco, Tokyo, you name it. We don’t hit those exclusive lakeside retreats where drug lords and arms dealers gamble with billions, though. We need places where we can blend in and draw attention all at the same time. I can barely believe this is real, sometimes. But we always clean house and are on a jet to the next place before anyone has time to do anything about it.”
And that’s exactly what you’re about to do here.
“So, why tell me all this?” I ask, making myself vulnerable by giving her an out, but I’m liking what I’m hearing more by the minute. “I could ruin everything for you, couldn’t I?”
“Who’d believe you?” she replies, and I see the flare of excitement in her eyes. “That’s the best and worst part—you’re not the first guy I’ve told about this.” I stare, surprised, but her face is grinning. “You’re the first to actually listen, but I’ve flirted with guys before. How could I not? You’d do the same if you were in my shoes.”
I have to admit, she’s right, and I nod.
“But your next question is, why put the whole thing at risk for that?” She sets her now-empty plate aside and lays on her stomach, crossing her legs at the ankles behind her and perching her chin on her folded hands and smiling at me. “It’s because of our boss.”
Alarm bells go off in my head, and I tilt my head to the side. Now I’m getting somewhere.
“So, this isn’t an independent thing?” I ask.
“I wish,” she says, shaking her head. “No, Carl—oh, excuse me, Mr. Owens as he insists on being called—takes most of the cut. By a big margin. Basically, he’s our overhead. He’s some pervy old rich heir who has nothing better to do with his life than organize a team of young and lovely gamblers, like moi,” she says with a flutter of her eyelashes, “and he flies us around the world to clean house with him.”
I raise my eyebrows as everything clicks in my head.
So, Carl Owens is the man responsible for cleaning out a mafia casino for millions of dollars in winnings, all by pulling the strings with a team of beautiful women who don’t even have to cheat to get what they want. Astounding.
“That’s a hell of a plan,” I admit, looking appropriately stunned in such a way that she seems satisfied with my reaction.
“Right? It would be perfect, if only he was thoughtful enough to pay us enough.”
“What’s your cut?”
“Fucking 10%,” she says, frowning ruefully. “Sure, that’s a lot of money, but compared to what he’s raking in for doing nothing but getting handsy with us and coaching us on things we already know? It’s an insult.”
“It really is,” I say, furrowing my eyebrows. That cut would be outrageous even by mafia standards, especially considering the risk involved.
The smile has faded from my face by a bit, because now, I have a lot to think about and not much time to figure out how to handle it.
It should be simple. I now have the name of the man who’s ripping the mob off, and I have Hadley. If Hadley had any idea how deep in the mafia I am, she wouldn’t be singing like a canary for me right now. If she knew I’m one job away from becoming a made man, she’d be a little more protective of her boss. But then again, she doesn’t seem to have any love for Carl, and he sounds like a piece of shit. She, on the other hand, is not a piece of shit. Hell, right now, she’s the most interesting woman I’ve met in my life, and I want to know more.
But if I did my job right, she’d be on the chopping block right along with Vanessa and Carl Owens. And that’s the big question I’m faced with: do I want to be a good mobster and do the job that’s expected of me?
Or do I let them get away with it and pretend I didn’t see anything?
Hadley deserves something good, better than what she’s getting now. Vanessa and the other girls probably deserve the same, if Hadley is telling the truth.
I’m holding the cards now, and I get to decide who wins.
But I’m sensing a third option, and it’s increasingly interesting.
“So, why don’t the lot of you just ditch Carl and go on your own?” I ask, smiling, and the question seems to delight her.
“I like how you think, but Carl is the glue keeping the operation together right now,” she admits. “Plenty of the girls are at least content with what we’re doing, not enough to rebel against him. He’s got a kind of... intimidating force of personality.” I hate him already. “And besides, he has the jet, he has the professionals who make all this happen,” she says, gesturing to her face. She’s still got most of her makeup on from last night.
I nod, but now I’m thinking. The amount of money they made last night would be more than enough to get things started off on their own. I wonder if they’ve made the handoff to Carl yet…
But just as that thought crosses my mind, I get a text. I check it, and see it’s from Jerry, telling me to call him immediately. I have to get back to my regular duties, or I’ll look suspicious. In a hurry, I stand up and buckle my belt.
“Where are you going?” she asks, crestfallen.
“Got to go,” I say brusquely, reaching my hand out. “And I’ll need that shirt back.”
I can see the disappointment and frustration melting over her face, and it’s heartbreaking, but I can’t linger any longer than this. She tears the shirt off her shoulders and thrusts it at me with a scowl.
“Fine, whatever,” she scoffs, standing up and heading to the bathroom. “Figures.”
I watch her go as I button my shirt back on. I’ll have to make it up to her somehow, but for now, I need to collect my thoughts. I head out the room once I’m dressed, and as I go, I already have a plan hatching in my head.
It’s simple and brutal, two things that go a long way in the mafia.
If I kill Hadley’s boss, then she gets to keep the money she earned, and I get to advance in the mafia. Nobody knows the girls are involved, and they disappear without a trace.
It’s perfect.
Hadley
“Vodka cranberry, please,” I murmur softly to Antonio the bartender, leaning on the bar counter with my elbow. “And make it a double. Might as well.”
“Double your pleasure, got it,” he replies, without an ounce of flirtation.
I smile faintly, glad that at least one man in this place still has a sense of humor. All evening, it’s been one rotten egg after another. Men who ogle me. Men who look down at me. Men who beg to know my name and where I’m from and what my room number is, as if there’s an ice cube’s chance in hell I would ever give any of them the time of day.
The most annoying part, by far, though is the fact that they keep beating me.
Well, scratch that. They don’t win because they’re better at the game, at card counting, than I am. They have been winning purely because I’m not doing my ultimate best.
It’s not for lack of trying, either. I’ve been doing everything in my power to direct my mind toward something useful, something that will earn my paycheck. I need to focus. I need to be on my A-game and wipe the casino floor with these chumps.
Normally, this would be a victorious day for me. I had the best sex of my life last night, and I doubt I will ever experience any sexual encounter quite so satisfying or exciting. It still brings a smile to my lips to think of the way Dominick leaned back against that railing, the only thing separating us from a freefall to hell a wrought-iron balustrade that probably hasn’t been inspected for safety in a decade.
I have done something risky things in my time on this planet. I went hiking alone in the Patagonian wilderness in winter. I skied in Switzerland, skipping the bunny slopes and heading straight to the big leagues, my body buzzing with liquor and a thirst to prove myself. I wandered the streets of Fez by myself, dodging aggressive street merchants and hungry-eyed men who looked at me like an eas
y target.
Hell, the way I make my money is risky. I’m always on the edge, and I thought nothing could surprise me anymore. But Dominick surprised me. He showed me a wildness I haven’t tapped into in a long, long time.
And then he had to go and ruin it all.
It’s as though my beautiful night was the result of some magical wish on a timer. In the morning my carriage turned back into a pumpkin and my prince charming transformed into just your everyday, garden-variety prick.
I still can’t believe how rude he sounded when he demanded his shirt back from me. As if I was going to steal it and sell it on the internet or something. It’s a shirt. Who cares? Besides, what kind of business could he possibly have had to tend to that was more important than lounging in bed with me eating room service breakfast and enjoying each other’s company?
I don’t take well to being treated so brusquely. I’m a once-in-a-lifetime catch, and I’ll be damned if I let any man knock me off-kilter. It’s not pride that makes me this way. It’s self-preservation, through and through. If I protect my heart, if I filter out the vast majority of men, it’s less likely that I’ll get hurt or distracted. In my line of work, distraction can be deadly. I have sharpened my abilities to tune out anyone who threatens my focus.
I guess I still have some work left to do, though, because Dominick has been crowding my thoughts ever since he left my hotel suite this morning so abruptly.
My phone buzzes and my heart skips a beat as I whip it out to check for a text message, half-expecting it to be some sort of apology from Dom. But no such luck. It’s from my coworker, probably urged to text me by my boss. Carl likes to contract out his work. Even in small ways. I know this message is really from him.
I instantly want to scold myself for being so excited by the idea of Dominick reaching out to me. He’s lost his chance. I have to keep it that way.
The message from my colleague reads: How’s that 1m from last night treating you?
I sigh and roll my eyes, feeling my stomach twist up into anxious knots. It takes a lot to make me nervous, but when I see the digital time on my cell phone screen, I can’t help but feel a twinge of worry. It’s nearly ten at night. Two hours to midnight and I’ve managed to squander away half last night’s winnings, which I was supposed to invest into an even bigger payout, as per my instructions from the boss man.
When I met him for a brief, light lunch in the hotel restaurant at noon today, he informed me of how pleased he was with my progress. The million I won yesterday was meant to be planted like a seed. To grow and multiply, making him an even wealthier man. That’s how he is. Never, ever satisfied. I suppose he’s not unlike any gambler in that way. No payout is enough. It’s always just a stepping stone to greater heights of wealth and luxury. And I’m the best employee. After all, he helped train me himself. I learned my basic tricks from him, although I’d like to think I’ve put my own spin on things. I’m a great counter, a fantastic gambler in my own right. And the boss just sees me as an extension of himself. I never fail him. I’m the most reliable cash cow he’s got, so he doesn’t think twice about asking me to double my winnings. Most of the time, I could do it, too.
Today, though, I’m in a funk. I curse myself inwardly for letting Dominick get into my head and dislodge all the focus and drive I’ve cultivated over the years. I never should have let him touch me like that. I’m smarter than this. Or at least I thought I was.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I can feel the scrutinizing gaze of the bouncers and enforcers following me from table to table. When the boss told me to keep playing today, I very nearly protested the idea. I mean, we’ve been here long enough. Too long, in fact. The only way our system works is if we get the hell out of dodge once we’ve won. You can’t just keep scamming the same establishment out of their money. Nobody is this lucky by nature. Suspicions arise. You shift from honored guest to bothersome pest. Eventually, someone is going to ask questions. Eventually, you’re going to get caught.
I don’t want to get dragged out of here by some stodgy security guard. It’s not good for my brand. It’s not good for my reputation. And besides, the boss man has dropped team members in the past a thousand times before. Once he decides you’re nothing but dead weight, you’re mutinied. You’re out. Dropped like a hot potato, abandoned into whatever boring, empty, low-class life he scooped you out of to begin with.
I refuse to go back. There is only moving forward for me. So despite my worries and my distraction, I have to make this money back.
I take my drink from Antonio and turn to walk back to one of the poker tables when suddenly, something catches my eye from across the room. I do a double take as my eyes fall over Dominick himself. I scowl at the sight of him, and then I realize he’s engrossed in some kind of hushed, conspiratorial conversation with another man.
The other guy looks rough around the edges, despite his flashy suit. There’s a beastly look in his beady black eyes, and the purplish bags under them hints at his nighttime prowler status. He clearly isn’t a daytime kind of guy. He’s like a predator, the kind you might run across walking alone in the deep, dark woods in a nightmare. He’s burly and broad-shouldered, hinting at a body accustomed to hard labor and hard living. He’s not as tall nor anywhere near as elegant as Dominick, who looks every bit as debonair and delectable as he did the first time I saw him.
Every fiber in my body longs to get closer to him, like he’s reeling me in on a fishing line without even trying. There’s this magnetic pull between us that is so powerful it nearly knocks me off my feet. But so far, he hasn’t seemed to notice I’m around. That’s for the best, I tell my disappointed heart. He’s already proven himself an unworthy object for my affection by the way he snapped at me this morning. I don’t put up with stuff like that. Not for anyone. Not even for a guy like Dom.
Taking advantage of the fact that he hasn’t noticed me yet, I begin to slowly and subtly work my way across the casino, inching closer and closer to their clandestine conversation. They don’t look my way, but I freeze up when I see the rougher looking guy put a hand on Dominick’s shoulder and guide him into a little alcove where the bachelor parties often gather to sit on leather couches and order trays of martinis while they get more and more wasted. I move along close to the wall, keeping out of sight as I wiggle up to the corner. I can’t see them, and they definitely can’t see me, but I can just faintly make out snippets of their conversation.
“Owens,” grunts the rough guy. “Carl Owens. That’s a name I never thought I’d hear in this town again.”
I have to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from gasping. Did Dom just use me to get my boss’s name? If the casino is onto us, then that must mean the rest of the dominoes will go tumbling down any time now.
Including me. I’m one of those dominoes. If Carl goes down, you’d better believe he will drag every one of us down with him.
“You spotted any of his little minions yet?” the rough man asks.
“Possibly,” answers Dom. “Most likely. I have a few suspicions.”
“Suspicion isn’t good enough. I need to know for sure he’s got these kids counting,” is the gruff reply. “What was the name of that girl you mentioned before?”
I hold my breath, waiting to hear my name.
“Alisson,” Dom says smoothly.
There’s no Alisson on our team. He could have offered up my name, or Vanessa’s, but he didn’t.
But he still gave up my boss, and that’s almost as bad. If I get caught counting to the extent that I have been, it’s all over for me. My reputation, so carefully and painstakingly built, will crumble underneath my feet. I won’t be able to get in anywhere. I have a very distinctive look. I’ll have to change everything in order to keep going, sacrifice who I am, the version of myself I have cultivated over the years.
My fears are solidified when I hear the rough guy, who I’m starting to strongly suspect as a mafia member, asks, “Is everything still good to go for the meeting?”
“Yes. It’s all falling into place as we expected. They won’t be leaving with all that cash,” Dominick says darkly.
“Shit,” I swear to myself under my breath. I decide right then and there that if they want to play games, I won’t let them take me so easily. Not without sweeping this whole place before they take me. I have heard enough of their sneaky conversation. I’m done.
I down my vodka cranberry, ordered in a rare moment of vulnerability, and stride back to the blackjack table. I delicately muscle my way through the clamoring crowds of bejeweled onlookers and take a seat. My competition, a group of men who look like high rollers, all stare at me open-mouthed. I smile. They weren’t expecting the likes of me.
Neither was the dealer by the look on her face.
“Hit me,” I tell her confidently.
I don’t know if it’s the liquor, the resentment, or the sense of impending doom hot on my heels, but something has restored my mojo. I utterly wreck the competition, leaving them red-faced and sour. I gather my chips up and move on to the next set. I flit from one game to the next, leaving a trail of devastation in my wake. I’m earning back my deficit and more. I’m flying through the ranks. And all along, I can feel a pair of blazing brown eyes on me, following me as I destroy the casino floor.
Dominick. He’s watching me. The mafia guy is gone, but Dom stays, hovering always just out of reach, watching me nearly double my money, playing into the wee hours of the morning. Around 2 AM he catches me in between tables and lays a hand on my arm. I look down at it disdainfully, then back up to glare into his face with as much venom as I can muster.
“Stop while you’re ahead,” he hisses, those eyes flitting around suspiciously.
“Sorry, I don’t take orders outside the bedroom,” I answer deftly, and sidestep him on my way to the next game, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
Betting on Love Page 5
