Page 8 of House of Cards

I slam down the phone and slump down into my chair, eyes locking onto the empty safe. Mom would’ve known what to do. She always did.

But Mom’s not here. It’s just me.

I pull up the Devil’s Luck Casino website on my phone and stare at it.

I’m not my brother. I’m not my mother.

And I sure as hell won’t be anyone’s victim.

The website glows on my phone screen like a portal to hell.

Fuck it.

If all else fails, I can always see what the Devil has to offer.

Smith

ONE WEEK LATER

My cellphone vibrates in my pocket, tearing my attention from the ledger I’ve been working on for God knows how long. My silver-framed glasses feel heavier than usual when I lift them off to rub the bridge of my nose.

TROY

Time for a break.

I tap my pen against my ledger a few times, sigh, and toss it to the table. When I close the ledger, I drag my fingertips down the smooth leather.

I appreciate things that submit to my will, but Troy’s right, I do need a break. There’s a tightness in my temples and behind my eyes, warning of an impending headache.

With Myles and Richmond dealing with mob business one state over, I’m way ahead of schedule. I’m so used to their constant interruptions that I didn’t bother setting a timer to pull me out of my focus.

With the shades drawn and the overhead lights on, I have no idea what time it is. It’s possible I missed a meal. Or two. But that will have to wait.

I slip my pen into the pocket of my white dress shirt which, paired with charcoal gray Tigullio wool trousers, comprise my self-appointed uniform. I prefer spending my time on work instead of choosing outfits the way Myles or Richmond does.

Troy gets it. He’s always in black.

Standing, I run a thumb under my hand-stitched leather suspenders. There’s something about the gentle resistance of leather against skin that centers me. A reminder that even unyielding materials will conform, with the right pressure applied in precisely the right places.

I’ve spent years perfecting that pressure in all aspects of my life.

I slip into my suit jacket and head out the door of my hotel room.

The subtle scent of Tom Ford Oud Wood clings to the fabric. Sandalwood, vanilla, and amber notes that cost more than most people make in a day.

There are things in these pockets, too. Essentials for every occasion.

Gloves. A switch blade. Plastic zip ties, because you never know when you need to subdue someone in a hurry.

Troy, in his black henley, black slacks, and black blazer, leans against the opposite wall with the air of someone who could stand there all day. I don’t know how he stands the drudgery. I’d lose my fucking mind.

“Afternoon,” I greet.

“Evening.” Then he shrugs. “Almost morning, actually.”

“Christ, already?” I shake my head as I turn to lock the door with my keycard.

“Need the books,” Troy appears at my side, putting out his hand to stop the door from closing.

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