Page 9 of King of the Bronx

Chapter Four

Raven

I took a deep breath before taking the stairs down to the underground gambling ring. Last night didn’t turn out how I’d expected. I was beyond rusty. Could barely remember my own hand, let alone try to figure out what other people might have. And it didn’t help that I’d snapped at the man who apparently owned the whole place. He was attractive, and maybe if we had met under different circumstances, I would have indulged him. But even then, it wouldn’t have led to anything. Men couldn’t be trusted. That’s how I ended up owning a brothel that was deep in debt to the Irish mafia.

The brightness from the streetlights above dimmed the further I descended the stairs.

The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself tonight, but I knew that was going to be impossible. Last night, the place had been filled with men, and they all looked at me like a dog drooling over a piece of steak. If I wasn’t so fucking desperate, I would have never come back. But every time I walked into the house and talked with my girls, I felt guilty. I would not fail them.

“Buy in?” the man at the door asked. He was built like a house, and I’d bet money he was used as the muscle if there was a problem.

I dug in my purse and pulled out the wadded cash. That was another issue. I was going to run out of money fast if I didn’t start winning at least a few hands. I had to at least break even each night until I got better at counting. Then, I could go home with the thirty thousand I needed and never see this place again. It sounded good in my head, but I was just hoping that it would actually work.

The man at the door moved to the side to let me past. The underground was dark with just enough light so that I could see the outlines of the tables and the bar. It was hard to make out any exact features of anyone unless I was sitting right beside them—like the guy I met last night. He was handsome. His short hair curled slightly at the top, but the sides were buzzed. He was clean-shaven, and something about him screamed money. It could have been the nice watch he had on or the small gold chain that rested against his caramel skin. He’d been arrogant. I guess he was allowed to be that cocky if he really did own the place.

I wondered what life would be like if I’d gone down the straight and narrow path. Found a normal job, went to college, maybe had a family. I definitely wouldn’t be sharpening my card counting skills, surrounded by men who couldn’t stop staring at my exposed legs.

I sat down at a blackjack table, just like the night before. The place wasn’t as packed today as it had been last night. Two of the men at the table were dressed nicely in button-down shirts while another one had a five-o’clock shadow and bags under his eyes. I kept an eye on him. After working at the brothel so long, I knew when someone was coming down from a bender.

“You in?” the dealer asked. Unlike at the casino, the dealer was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. His gun was holstered on his hip as a silent warning.

“Yes.” I reached in my purse, counted out the money, and gave it to the dealer. He counted it again and then added it to the pile. He dealt the cards and I got down to work.

Counting cards came down to one thing: assigning a number to the high and low cards and using that to identify my chances of winning. The idea is to bet low when chances of winning are low and bet high when chances of winning were high, but since I was trying to hone my skills, I wasn’t paying much attention to my bet strategy yet.

The hard part was keeping track of the number each player had and remembering if it was to my advantage or not. I used to be great at it a long time ago. I could talk and drink all while keeping the cards straight in my head, but now I had to really concentrate without being obvious. No matter what, it would take a few hands for me to get into the flow.

I lost the first hand but couldn’t afford to lose another, but I was able to win some of my money back during the second hand. After about five rounds and a couple more people joining the table, I started to remember all the tricks and tips I used to use. I was nowhere near as good as I used to be, but I was getting there.

When I looked up at the big clock hanging over the bar, I realized I’d been sitting in the same spot for three hours. I lost a little bit of money but still had enough to get in next time. Deciding to call it a night, I stuffed my winnings into my bag and walked over to the bar.

Might as well get a drink before going back to the brothel and working for a little bit. I pulled myself onto a barstool and ordered a rum and Coke. As I waited for the bartender to fix up my drink, I looked around the room.

Leaning against the end of the bar talking with another guy was the man from last night. He nodded as he listened to the guy in front of him speak. I didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered to me. I quickly turned my head.

The bartender set the drink in front of me. I took a sip, and a moment later, the man slid into the stool next to me. Fuck.

“Came back for more?” he asked. His voice was deep, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

Tonight, he was dressed in dark jeans and a blue button-down shirt. With the light coming from the bar, I could see his muscles rippling underneath his shirt. His green eyes roamed over my body. Most of the time, I hated when men looked at me like that, but with him, knowing he was checking me out, a spark of excitement lit up in my chest. His tongue grazed over his bottom lip. That might have just been the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m here for the game,” I said, finding my voice.

He turned to face the bar and ordered a shot of cognac. I drank my rum and Coke while waiting for the bartender to make his drink. He raised his shot glass to my glass and clinked them together before shooting it back. He didn’t make a face or show that the shot affected him at all. It reminded me of one of my foster parents who’d been an angry drunk. Drank the shit like water.

“So, what really brings you hear? You’re not my typical customer.”

“Why? Because I’m not a man?” I asked, proud of myself for being able to talk in complete sentences as he stared at me.

“Precisely.”

I didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure what to tell him. I didn’t expect anyone to question my reason for being at the underground. I just needed to build up my skills and then get away with enough money to pay off the Irish. After that, I never wanted to come back to this place again. I sipped my drink, faster now, so I could get far away from this man.

He scooted his barstool closer to me so that our legs were almost touching. Goosebumps rose over my skin in anticipation. It had been a long time since I allowed a man to touch me. My body was begging for him to reach his hand out to rest on my bare leg.

I needed to get it together. I was about to steal from his pockets. I couldn’t let my body betray me. He put an elbow on the bar and leaned close to me. The smell of his cologne and the cognac filled my nose.

“How about we go back to my place for the night?” he asked. My jaw nearly dropped in shock. Well, that was bold! If he was ballsy enough to proposition a woman he barely knew, it was probably a common occurrence for him, and I had no desire to be another notch on his bedpost.

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