Page 19 of Unlawful Lies

I roll the poker chip between my fingers, marking its path over my knuckles.

“Call?” the dealer asks.

“I’m all in.” My hand is good. Better than any of the shit I’ve had in days past, but tonight, I’ve been on a roll.

It’s a welcome change for everything I’ve clawed my way through. Winning is fucking fantastic. I need it. With tonight’s earnings, I’ll have almost enough to pay off the last of my debt.

It stops here.

No matter how bad the draw gets, no matter how sweaty I am and sick to my stomach when I need a fix, it ends with the debt paid and my name struck from a ledger I hadn’t been able to find.

I set the cards on the table at the same time the rest of the boys around me do, and their chorus of groans is a symphony to my ears. I’ve won again.

A proud, somewhat sly smile splits my face, and the cigarette dangles from the corner of my lips as I reach for the pile of winnings and draw it to me. Lil Joey, a regular at the table and a fixture of the club, shoots a glare in my direction, and I know if weapons hadn’t been checked at the door of the gambling den, he’d have a gun to my head right now.

I stack the chips into tiny towers and take a long draw of smoke until it curdles in my lungs.

Lil Joey is the least of my problems.

It took me the past two years to clear up the majority of my gambling debt, a fucking godawful habit I picked up in college and easily got out of control when things hadn’t gone my way. Dad took care of some things, threatening death should I accrue any more debts.

Tonight is my time. My winning streak is as wide as the Mississippi River.

I’ve learned my lesson. I just can’t stop yet.

Not until every red cent is back where it belongs.

There’s a control at the table. I’m the one with the power to make or break a night. There is no one else responsible for the cards except me, even if I have to borrow the money to continue the control.

What the hell will I do when I draw the line for good?

What new high should I claim?

Excitement lights a fire in my gut that has me placing my bet for the next round and watching the dealer eagerly as he shuffles the deck. I know what I’m doing. I know how to handle myself and I know how to play poker with the best of them.

“Think you’re going to kick our asses again, Balestra?” Hognose Pete Jones lets out a snort from my left, the reason for his rather unflattering nickname.

My current smoke is down to the rotten filter. I grind the stub down on the crystal ashtray before I pause to grab another and flick the lighter, turning the end to glowing amber. The first inhalation of smoke in my lungs adds euphoria to the excitement. “It’s not a plan, Pete. I’m going to beat you bloody.”

Joey sneers. “Maybe you should stop while you’re ahead.”

He’s right. I need to stop before I empty my wallet and rank up the debt yet again. Before I even have a chance to make good with?—

I’ll be a dead man walking if I dig a deeper hole.

But the smoke in my lungs and the chips in front of me are too controlling to pass up. It’s a narcissistic relationship where I gaslight myself into being unable to say no. My index finger peels away from the rest of my fist and lifts in the air.

Within seconds, a subtly dressed man walks over and inclines his head to mine, waiting for my order.

“Brandy, neat.”

Hognose Pete rolls his eyes back into his flesh forehead. “Trust you to be high and mighty with us.”

“The liquor is a personal preference,” I state. “One I don’t expect you to understand.”

A few sips stolen at my grandfather’s knee when I was little cemented my taste for the stuff. Father’s never approved. But he’s not fucking here. I am.

The chance of winning holds too much sway over me to give in to my annoyance. These two yahoos are the least likely to cause a problem, no matter how they huff and they puff. There have been some real pieces of shit in the club before, those who decide to stick a knife in the tip of your dick for looking at them sideways.

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