Page 1 of Heir

CHAPTER ONE

Omaera Playfair

Chase City, Washington, US

“Four of a kind,” I said, placing my cards down on the worn felt table in the underground wine cellar. I kept my face neutral because even though I was doing a little touchdown victory dance in my head, I wasn’t a sore winner on the outside. But I also knew that nobody at that table had a better hand than my four of a kind. Four queens and ten of spades.

Groans echoed around the table, as well as from some spectators who were betting on me not winning.

Not a wise move.

This filly races to win.

The dealer, Damon, nodded and I scooped my winning chips forward, already coming up with at least five ways I intended to spend my winnings tonight. First and foremost, though? A Greek pizza with feta and extra Kalamata olives for me and my best friend, Gemma, who stood behind me telling off some guy who was making noise about me cheating.

Fuck him.

I was no cheat.

I didn’t even count cards.

I just had this deep-seated intuition about the other players that not even I could explain. I knew when they had a crappy hand. I knew when they were bluffing, and I knew when I needed to fold. Of course, I read their tells; but it was more than that too. It was almost like I read their minds. I read their energy, their indecision, their confusion, their confidence. I felt their emotions like they were my own.

And by leaning into this . . . talent, for lack of a better word, I won nearly every game I played. To the point where players came from all over the country—and from other countries—to try to beat me.

I wasn’t banned from places like Vegas and Monaco, but if I went, I probably would be. But I didn’t give two shits about those glitzy idiot-magnet type places anyway. I liked the local underground circuit better. It was more my style.

“She’s cheating,” the loud, obnoxious, and slightly drunk guy continued to say to Gemma. “She has to be. No girl can be that good. She’s counting cards. Or she’s—”

“Just a girl that kicked your friend’s ass?” Gemma retorted.

I snickered and gave Gemma’s bare knee a loving little pinch. As always, she wore a short skirt with a schoolgirl pleat, even though it was black and leather. Her combat boots hid her black socks decorated with little hot pink cats. Her hot pink crop top covered by a dark denim bolo jacket completed her “I don’t give a fuck” look.

“Buy in for this next game is five grand,” Damon announced. “We’ll begin in fifteen minutes.”

Gemma leaned down. “Are we sticking around for another game, or heading out?”

“What would you rather?” I asked, indifferent to whether we stayed or left. I knew I’d win the next game. I could read the over-confidence and hesitation of every person letting the dealer know they were in. Easy marks. The next game would be child’s play.

She yawned. “I do have an early morning shift at the coffee shop tomorrow.”

I shrugged. “Then let’s go. Just make sure you order the pizza from Mario’s on Fifth this time, not Mario’s on Douglas. They scrimped on the olives last time.”

Gem nodded and pulled out her phone.

I stood up, preparing to take my chips to cash in.

“What? Is the big baby girl leaving now?” taunted a square-headed man with a thick Eastern European accent. He had a buzz cut and one lazy eye. Or maybe it was a glass eye. He’d just finished paying his buy-in to the dealer. “Afraid to play against real men?”

I grinned at him. “Yep. That’s exactly it. You terrify me and I’d rather cut my losses and go home with some money.”

He wasn’t expecting that kind of response. When people around him chuckled, he quickly caught on that I was fluent in sarcasm and every syllable I said dripped in it. His face went red and his nostrils flared, reminding me of a bull stomping the dirt and preparing to impale the matador.

“You making fun of me, Big Baby Girl?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“Because it sounded like you were making fun of me. Nobody makes fun of Ivan Novák.”

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