Page 47 of Prince of Masks
The cheaper tourists can be spotted a few ways. Cameras stuck to their hands or draped over their necks, sticks to attach to their phones, backpacks, or even worse, those sorts of bags that clasp around the waist.
And then there are the citizens of the country. The locals of the city. Easy to spot in their uniforms. Hotel staff, waiters, bartenders, security, maids, casino attendants—all in crisp, drycleaned uniforms.
I always thought it strange that the citizens aren’t allowed in the gambling rooms of the casino. That they were barred from the most revenue earning scheme of their own country. But then, it’s a clever way to bring poisonous, dirty money into the country, clean it, and keep the poison from hurting their people.
Smart, really.
Technically, my family’s company is in a small, private country—which is, really, an island that’s uninhabited. It’s a tax thing.Tax systems were never designed to charge the wealthy, they were only created to prop them up.
“Miss Craven.” The bellgirl clears her throat behind me. “Will there be anything else?”
I tug my gaze from the view and look over my shoulder at her; the muddy shade of her sleek hair, pulled back into a stern bun, and the cute little hat atop her head to match the red of her gold-threaded uniform.
She waits for a tip.
I abandon my coffee on a table before I leave the terrace.
The bellgirl makes way for me through the door, then shadows me from a distance to the lounge.
There, I tug out four paper notes from my wallet and, without looking back at her, extend them as the tip. Four hundred euros is generous for a bellgirl. Even from one of us, those hundreds add up day after day, task after task.
So it comes with a favour.
Before she reaches for it, I say, “Will you go next door to my brother’s suite—and give him a note from me?”
“Of course, Miss Craven.”
She takes the tip.
She might wish she hadn’t.
Too late to back out now.
I snatch a sheet of hotel-issued parchment from under the paperweight. I flatten my hand on it, then curl in three fingers to my palm, and a thumb.
With a pencil, I trace the outline of my balled hand… and my elongated middle finger.
Satisfied, I fold the note and hand it to the bellgirl.
Her lips are thinned, so I know she saw my lovely drawing, and it’s enough to make her hesitate.
Her espresso eyes cut to me—and she blinks once before she forces a tight smile that looks more like a grimace and she’s in considerable pain.
She dips her head, takes the note and leaves.
I watch her go for just a moment before I rush to the door and press my ear to it.
I hear the knock. Then silence. Then the faint yank of the doorhandle.
The bellgirl speaks, and her voice is a murmur.
Silence again.
My smile widens, it darkens—then it splits into a grin when Oliver shouts down the corridor, “Fuck you, too!”
I flick the lock, then draw away from the door.
First stop is the bathroom, but not to shower or relieve, rather to search my leather duffel for my sleep mask. Success. I find it tucked away in a slip pocket with earplugs.
