Page 61 of The Wrong Play

The hallway ahead of me was narrow and dimly lit, the concrete walls lined with pipes that dripped condensation. My footsteps echoed as I moved forward, the floor uneven beneath my shoes.

Another door waited at the end, this one manned by a second guy—leaner than the first but just as unfriendly. His suit was pristine, his posture relaxed, but there was no mistaking the weight of the gun on his hip. He didn’t speak. Just looked me and the black card over with a sneer like my gloriousnessoffended him, and then he pulled open the door and stepped aside.

The moment I entered, the atmosphere changed. The air was thick, hazy with cigar smoke, the scent of whiskey sharp against the stale air. Low murmurs filled the room, the quiet shuffle of cards against felt, the occasional clink of chips being stacked.

It took me a second to see who else was in the room. Dozens of people were seated at round tables, heads bowed over hands of cards, faces unreadable beneath the dim, hanging lights. A single chandelier flickered overhead, casting a dull glow over the scene, making the shadows dance along the cracked walls.

A poker game.

My lips curled into a relieved smirk. I could play poker.

A woman in a sultry red cocktail dress appeared from the shadows, her perfume cutting through the haze. “Follow me,” she said, her voice smooth, practiced.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she led me through the room, weaving between tables stacked with cash, liquor bottles, and more than a few knives. When we reached the main table, she gestured for me to sit before slipping away, disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.

I took my seat, eyeing the men around me.

Slicked-back hair and a scar across his jaw—Scar Jaw, I decided. He probably collected debts with a crowbar.

To his right, there was a guy with yellowed teeth and fingers stained with nicotine. He grinned, revealing more gums than I needed to see. If we became friends, I was definitely going to give him my dentist’s number. Although, he looked like the kind of guy who knew how to make people disappear. So maybe not.

Next to him was a guy who was all muscle—I was going to call him Neck Tattoo on account of the skeleton hand that was gripped around his throat. He cracked his knuckles every fewseconds like he was debating whether breaking bones or winning money was a better use of his time.

And finally, next to him, Dead Eyes. His face was unreadable, his suit too perfect. He watched me like I was already a corpse waiting to drop. I liked him the least, I decided. If anyone was going to kill me, it was going to be him.

Man, these secret society people took their membership trials seriously.

Scar Jaw gave me a lazy grin as I took my seat. “Hope you’re better at cards than you look.”

Offensive. I’d been told by many a person—mostly women—that I looked very capable. They might have been talking about my skills in the bedroom, but I was going to not think about that at the moment because this man had just insulted me. He was going in my burn book. Probably wasn’t going to ever enact my revenge because he looked like he could eat me, but he was going to go in the book, anyway.

Yellow Teeth shuffled his chips and sneered. “You got a name, or should we just call you fresh meat?”

I met his gaze, letting a slow smirk of my own creep onto my face. “Call me whatever you want,” I said, picking up my cards.

The dealer flicked cards out in smooth, precise motions. “Spoken like someone who doesn’t know who he’s playing against.”

In the center of the table sat a pile that would make a lesser man sweat. Bundles of cash, some still bound with foreign bank seals, stacks of gold coins, and an assortment of glittering jewels—rings, necklaces, even a diamond-encrusted watch that probably belonged to someone who wasn’t alive to miss it. A single silver briefcase sat on top, latched shut, the kind of thing that in any movie would be filled with either more money or something significantly worse.

I took it all in. All right, I was going to assume that the Sphinx wanted me to win all of that. Or if they didn’t, I would hope some kind of sign would appear because I wasn’t a fucking mind reader.

The first few hands were a disaster. I played cautiously, testing the waters. But it didn’t matter—bad cards, bad luck, and a table full of men who had no problem taking my money made sure of that. The cockiness around me widened as my stack dwindled, and Scar Jaw chuckled under his breath.

“Tough luck, fresh meat,” Yellow Teeth taunted, stacking his winnings. “Maybe you should stick to the kiddie tables.”

I shrugged, pretending to brush it off. “Just warming up,” I told them with a small grin, ignoring the bead of sweat sliding down my spine as he picked his teeth with what may have been a human bone.

A few more rounds, and I realized something was off. The guy to my left was dealing himself better hands than probability should allow, and the man across from me had a habit of adjusting his sleeve right before a good hand came his way. They were cheating.

Of course they were.

I pretended not to notice, letting them think I was just another sucker out of his depth. Meanwhile, I memorized their tells, their tricks. The way Scar Jaw flicked his index finger when he bluffed. The way Yellow Teeth smirked a half-second too soon when he had a sure thing. On my next hand, I won. A full house—aces over kings. Wasn’t sure how I’d gotten that hand with the Cheater-McCheaters at the table. But I’d take it.

The shift around the table was immediate. A few eyes flickered toward me with new interest. Scar Jaw raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Beginner’s luck,” he mused, taking a slow sip of whiskey. I mean, I wasn’t sure that losing five hands ina row and then winning one wasbeginner’s luck, but I wasn’t going to argue with the man.

There was a full tumbler of whiskey in front of me, but I wasn’t taking slow sips…or any sips at all. There was a ninety-nine percent chance it was drugged, so I wasn’t going to take that risk.

Yellow Teeth scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, let’s see if it holds.”

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