Page 14 of Bad Blood
“Are you sure it’s not Carrera affiliated?” For some reason, this place is making me nervous.
“Life’s a fucking gamble, right, babe?” He appraises me with half-lidded eyes that dare to stray southward again. “On second thought, you’ll never look as hot as your sister. Now, whenshewrapped her lips around my cock—”
“Go fuck yourself, Bardi!” Angrily, I swipe at the door handle. How dare he disrespect Ella like that.How dare I lead her astray and get her into this mess in the first place.
Swinging out of the passenger seat, I grind my five-inch heels into the gray stone driveway. “Little tip for you,” I say, leaning back inside the vehicle. “Keep your eyes off my legs, or I’ll be showing you this real neat knife trick my father taught me.”
I regret my words instantly.
Little tip for myself? Don’t piss off the guy with my sister’s reputation in his hands.
“Go count your cards, Thalia Santiago,” he calls out from the driver seat. “Go make Daddy proud.”
With his words stinging my ears, I slam the door and make my way into the casino, tensing my stomach muscles as I pass through security. Fortunately, my fake ID checks out. They don’t even glance at my face as they sweep my purse for hidden bombs.
Whoever owns this place has their market by the throat. The main gaming floor is a silky-smooth set-up, with a black and gold decor, mirrored walls, and crystal chandeliers hanging from high domed ceilings. The acoustics are amplifying the sound of the play, making me feel like I’m entering a Gladiatorial arena, where success hangs on the mercy of the cards and the lions of failure are constantly prowling the perimeter.
I take my time, buying up a couple of grand’s worth of chips, drifting between tables, my free cocktail in hand—catching hot glances and returning them with an icy-cold detachment that freezes their hopeful balls off. Eventually, I settle at a table, sliding into the Third Base seat of seven, and stifling my grin. It’s a great position. The one I’ve been waiting for. I can see all the other player’s cards dealt before mine and I’m always the last to hit, split or surrender.
“How many decks?” I ask the dealer, signaling to one of the circling waitresses for another drink.
“Eight,” she says curtly, loading up the shoe. “We only use eight at Legado.”
My grin slips as I watch her insert a red plastic card into the decks. I’m used to counting six. The house edge here just made my job a hell of a lot harder.
The chairs are soon filling up.
I lose a thousand on the first five games—partly intentional, partly out of nerves. There’s some beefy Texan and his trophy wife next to me who are determined to be the big stakes at the table, betting higher and higher to match their egos, like new money often does.
Settling into a groove, I keep my bets under five hundred as I start to see the rhythm in the cards. Before long, I’m ten thousand up, and three drinks down.
Half an hour later, I’ve gained another ten after a tactical, diversionary loss of four.
“Paint it, paint it!” the Texan yells, clawing at the table behind his cards like he’s cat-scratching the felt. The requested card sends him crashing over with a bust hand of twenty-two and a volley of Dallas profanity.
I glance at the dealer’s “upcard” and the one she just revealed. It’s a shiny red ace of hearts and a nine of clubs.
Total of twenty.
I glance at my cards again.
Another blackjack hand.
Twenty-one.
I wave at her and slide the cards under my bet, calculating that I’ve just netted myself another three thousand, when there’s a flash of black and blue to my left.
Two men are moving through the gaming floor on a fast trajectory that’ll bring them within spitting distance of my table. One is short and non-descript, wearing a cheap navy suit and glasses that make him look like a Pro Bono from the ass-end of Queens, but the other… My breath catches…The other is sinful royalty himself.
He’s taller than most, making him even harder to ignore. Tousled dark hair, hard penetrating brown eyes that are taking a sledgehammer to my senses, a devilishly-well cut black suit to match... His skin is a rich golden color that only adds to that mysterious aura of money and power, and the high cut of his cheekbones is casting serious shade over a fierce expression.
His movements are sleek and precise. One hand hangs loose from his suit pant pocket, but I can tell it’s more from habit than some masculine, dick-swinging statement. It’s pulling his white dress shirt taut against his lower torso, outlining the wall of muscle underneath which barely shifts as he walks.
Stalks.
Fear ignites in my veins again, and this time it’s the kind that no amount of free drinks can extinguish.
“Ma’am,” snaps the dealer, losing patience with me.
