Gamble

FALLON My mind is elsewhere as I shuffle the deck, my fingers dancing over the worn edges in a rhythm as familiar as my heartbeat. The stench of stale beer and desperation clings to this place like a second skin. However, thoughts of how lucky I was to escape the underground games at Verdigris alive last night consume my thoughts. Just thinking about the underground game sends an icy shiver up my spine. The men down there aren’t ones you would want to be alone with in a dark alley, certainly not after what I witnessed. Lives hold no value to men like them; a woman’s life is even less. There is an even bigger game tomorrow, and I want to buy in. Winning that one would cover Emma’s medical bills, which are becoming more costly by the day. If I go, I risk running back into Devin Penso. Desperation will have me willing to take my chances, I’m sure. However, Devin may just put a bullet in my head if we cross paths again. The monster remained undefeated for six months until I sat at his table. So he wasn’t too thrilled when I eliminated every table, stealing his undefeated title. If I were a man, he might have been less volatile. Yet, I had been knocking back that pig’s advances all night, only to embarrass him further when I stole his title right out from under him. If it weren’t for the security holding him back as I stalked out of the club, I would have been dead in a ditch somewhere. However, it is still a genuine possibility if my boss finds out about me skimming the table a few weeks back to get enough for the buy-in to the game. I’ve since put it back. No one is willing to risk Leone’s wrath. I’d bet Devin even fears that man; everyone in the city knows better than to cross Leone Presutti. Unfortunately, though, I had drawn some attention at Verdigris, which makes me nervous. Peering around, I wait for my table to fill, my eyes scanning the floor above, where something seems to be happening. Bouncers escort one man down the steps, taking him out the back. I suck in a breath, recognizing the man from Verdigris. All I know is, I would hate to be him. If you’re being escorted out the back, chances are you’ll be the next news headline. My fingers dance across the deck of cards, the edges sliding smoothly against each other like liquid as I easily bridge the deck. The faces of kings and queens blur before my eyes—to anyone else, they are just ink on paper— to me, they are the keys to a calculated game of numbers and probabilities. “Place your bets,” I call, my voice threading through the smoky room of the casino floor. A shiver runs up my spine, feeling eyes on me. And not those of Peter Pervy, as I like to call him. He’s been eyeing me all night through his drunken haze, conveniently forgetting his wife and kids at home. The eyes of someone else send those same spine-tingling chill up my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I lift my gaze to the level above again, meeting the glare of someone far more sinister than the drunk man with a wandering eye across from me. I’d prefer Peter’s leering gaze; he makes my skin crawl when drunk, but this man turns the blood in my veins ice-cold, knowing I’ve caught his attention. Leone Pressutti, my boss. Not just my boss; he’s also the city’s most notorious mob boss. The Pressutti family had an infamous reputation for controlling the criminal underworld in this city. Leone now owns his family’s entire empire. Leone and Milo are the epitome of danger and allure. Leone, tall, with dark, piercing eyes and an aura that exudes power, commands attention wherever he goes. The man is a monster and looks the part, too, with a sharp jawline, black hair styled to perfection, and broad shoulders. His accent drips with a seductive charm that can make even the strongest-willed person weak in the knees. He is the devil in disguise, or maybe the grim reaper, since no one survives crossing Leone. Milo, on the other hand, has a rugged charm accentuated by his chiseled features and equally dark eyes, as well as his tousled dark hair and a hint of stubble. Despite his cold and calculating demeanor, there’s an undeniable magnetism about him that draws people in, making him just as alluring as his boss but no less deadly. I’ve seen the way the ladies here hang off him. And here they are, watching me deal cards in a smoky casino, and my stomach twists at the thought. I suck in a breath as our eyes meet. Leone’s eyes are dark, looking like obsidian pools from my vantage point. His gaze is cold and calculating, scanning me from head to toe, taking in every detail. My heart pounds in my chest; attention from Leone was usually bad. I maintain my composure, keeping my face calm and neutral as I continue to deal cards to the players at my table. Inside, I’m trembling with fear. I’m used to blending into the background. So his attention is trouble I can’t afford, right now. The clinking of chips and whirring of machines fade into the background and become white noise. Peter leans forward, waving his hand in front of my face, his leering gaze raking over me, and then he grips my hand, forcing my attention back to the table. I stare at Peter Pervy, startled, before remembering I am supposed to be dealing cards. For the first time, I’m grateful to have Peter’s attention as I force myself to focus back on the game at hand. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing here on a Sunday night?” he slurs drunkenly like he doesn’t see me every day. I fight the urge to roll my eyes while his gaze lingers on the cascade of my long, wavy, blonde hair which tumbles freely over my shoulders, stopping just below my breasts. Peter’s gaze then hones in on my chest, and he licks his dried-out lips, making me want to slap him. “Dealing cards and breaking hearts, Peter, you know exactly what I’m doing,” I reply with a wink, serving up the charm with a side of sass. My deep green eyes meet his unflinchingly as I deal out the next hand, seeing the desperation in his. Whether you’re a male or female dealer, Peter always turns flirty, believing it will improve his odds. The man is delusional, though harmless. “Blackjack!” a woman at the far end of the table cheers, her voice slicing through the soft chatter. “Congratulations, ma’am,” I say, pushing the chips her way with a smile. Inside, numbers tumble and turn; I’ve tracked every card, counting as each one hits the table. It’s a dangerous game if caught, and I played for stakes. Necessity is a relentless teacher, and card counting has become second nature to me. Half the time, I don’t even realize I’m doing it. Blackjack has always been my game of choice. Counting is straightforward because it relies heavily on watching the suits and keeping a running tally of the high and low cards dealt. This shows me when the odds swing more favorably. However, each shuffle resets the dance, and the count begins again. In Texas Hold’em, counting cards is less about memorization and more about understanding game dynamics. Unlike blackjack, where you track exact cards, here you observe the flow—high, medium, and low cards and suits as each surface. Noting how many of a particular suit appear after the flop helps gauge the likelihood of a flush around the table. I usually avoid that game if I can help it, if not, I always have other ways. Like at Verdigris the other night, I used a riskier tactic—hand mucking. Holding a high card in reserve, like an Ace or King, I’d wait for a moment of distraction, then swap it in. High stakes, high risk. In those underground games, I’ve seen severe consequences for getting caught, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My fingers sweep the cards, ready for the next round. To any onlooker, I am just another dealer among the sea of green felt tables. “Hit me,” comes the gruff command from Peter. “Are you sure, sir?” I ask, knowing the odds are not in his favor after turning cards for the other five people at the table. It isn’t my place to argue, only to serve cards, and I hope I make enough tips to play the underground games tomorrow. I’m still short, even after my win at Verdigris last night. If I don’t, I risk borrowing or selling my soul for the chance. Over the past five years, I’ve learned every game here, from three to five, in hand poker, blackjack, and roulette. I know the cards, which sides of the dice are weighted, and the chances, just as I remember Emma’s medications. Unfortunately, these players are locals and gambling addicts who barely have a few cents to rub together tonight. Meaning my tips will suck unless they win. “Damn straight,” Peter shoots back, though I don’t miss the desperation in his gaze. Another thing I’ve learned is, I’m good at reading people, the subtle twitch of someone’s lips, and the flick of their eyes as they scan a table or the cards. I can tell when their hand excites or disappoints by how they sit or breathe. Everything is a sign of a winning or losing hand, and by the look on Peter’s face, this hand decides if he goes home or plays another round. And I know he’s going home. I flip the card and watch his face crumble. “f**k!” he mutters, throwing his hands up before storming away, his drink sloshing recklessly onto the plush carpet. Peter should have walked away. I shouldn’t have warned him by asking him if he was sure, but I know Peter has a family at home, a family on the brink of losing everything because of his gambling addiction. With a heavy sigh, I watch Peter storm off to the exit and leave before I flick my eyes to the floor above. I suck in a relieved breath when I notice my boss no longer watching me. However, that feeling of relief lasts about two seconds. I’m about to deal the next hand to a new patron who slides onto the stool across from me when I feel a presence behind me. Their heat seeps into my back, and I’m instantly alert to my surroundings as I stare in horror at the man who just took Peter’s seat.