Page 6 of Wicked Embers

Every movement in this room bends to my design. A perfectly timed joke, the brush of a beautiful server’s arm as she leans in with a tray, or the sly offering of complimentary poker chips—each distraction calculated as my housemen quietly tip the scales in my favor.

Vodka flows freely, loosening inhibitions and wallets alike. I let my guests taste victory now and then, just enough to sustainthe illusion. By the time they realize the house—my house—always wins, the game is already over.

Tonight’s hastily assembled game surpasses even my expectations. Politicians rub shoulders with criminals, their egos colliding over high-stakes bets. Businessmen with fortunes as dubious as their morals throw chips onto the felt with reckless abandon.

But tonight, this game isn’t about mere money. My eyes settle on Mark Dalton—a pitiful wreck soaked in desperation and cheap booze. He’s a gambler who’s already lost everything, yet clings to the fantasy of redemption like a drowning man grasping at smoke. His gambling addiction could swallow the city whole, yet I’ve kept him alive. He’s been useful, until now.

Recent intel suggests he’s been holding out on me. A Greek prisoner, shattered by my men’s careful persuasion, uttered a name I’ve hunted for a decade: the Greek Matriarch. The ghost who ordered the deaths of my father and uncle. Her name alone silences men, yet here she is, stirring the waters again. And somehow, Mark Dalton is the key to finding her.

Even with the room’s even temperature, Dalton sweats like he’s sitting in hell’s furnace. Each chip he loses pulls him closer to the edge, exactly where I want him. Two players fold on cue, leaving just Mark and me. I’m about to see his bet when the doors burst open.

A woman storms in, her wild auburn hair and blazing eyes like a lightning strike in the heart of my domain—electric and unrestrained. My gut tightens, heat pooling low as an unwelcome distraction takes hold.

Dalton freezes, his face draining of color. I follow his gaze, intrigued, as it lands on the fiery-haired woman. “Friend of yours, Dalton?” I murmur, though the answer is already clear.

Dalton stumbles over his words, choking on his drink. “My... my daughter,” he stammers, his voice a cracked whisper. “Leigh.”

Daughter?This changes things.

I study her carefully. Petite but fierce, her movements sharp and deliberate. She’s arguing with Fredrik, one of my soldiers, her hand curling around a vodka bottle from a nearby table. The look in her eyes suggests she’s not after a drink.

Mark’s desperation is a vulnerability I can exploit.A daughter he kept hidden?That’s no accident. There’s power in her presence—leverage Mark doesn’t realize he’s about to hand me.

“How old is she?” I ask casually. He looks at me confused. “Your daughter. How old is she?”

Mark’s bloodshot eyes dart nervously between me and Leigh. “Uh... twenty-two—no, twenty-three,’ he stammers before correcting himself. “No, she’s twenty-two.”

“Are you sure?” Who the fuck doesn’t know how old their child is? Jesus.

“Yes, Leigh was twenty-two in June.” He shifts in his chair. “I should talk to her.”

“You know the rules Mark.” I lean back, savoring his discomfort. “No personal chats unless there’s an emergency.”

“I just need to ask her to wait in the Diamond Lounge,” he pleads.

I let the silence stretch, my gaze shifting between father and daughter, pieces on a chessboard I’ve yet to fully comprehend. The game has changed, and I’m already calculating my next move.

I glance at Mark. His eyes flick from his daughter to the pile of money.Mm. He’s a man torn between his greed and loyalty to his daughter. I can use that and gain even a bigger advantage than just money over the man.

“Fredrik,” I say, tapping my earpiece. “Watch out for the bottle in Miss Dalton’s hand. I think she’s going to use your head for target practice. Stall her until I ask you to bring her to me. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Fredrik nods, grips her wrist, and drags her toward me. She thrashes against his hold, but he doesn’t flinch. I turn to Mark, his eyes widening in distress.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your daughter... Leigh, did you say?”

“Please…” Mark’s astonished gaze locks on me, fear flashing in his eyes. “I’m sorry she’s barreled in here like that. But she has nothing to do with this—whatever I do has no bearing on her.” He swallows. “She’s angry at me. I did something that I’m not proud of. Please just let her go.” His head turns toward her and then back to me. “Leigh just has a quick temper and doesn’t think things through. If you give me five minutes, I’ll make her go to the Diamond Lounge. I’m sorry she’s causing a scene.”

I watch him. He seems genuinely concerned for Leigh. I wonder just how concerned he is! I’m about to put his paternal instincts to the test.

“If you need to talk to her so badly, let’s finish this game.” I push my pile of chips into the center of the table, watching his eyes bulge, knowing he can’t cover the bet. “All in.”

“No…” Mark breathes. I can see the defeat cloud his eyes. He turns to me, trying for one more lifeline. “Please... just extend me a bit more credit.”

“No more credit Mark.” I lean forward. “But maybe you have something else of value I want.”

“My Cadillac?” Mark says. “It’s vintage in mint condition.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I was thinking...” I watch him blink, confused about what else I could want. I make a show of letting him know precisely what that is as I turn and let my gaze drift toward his daughter. “Her.” I nod toward Leigh.

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