Gamble

Chapter 9

FALLON

My heart beats relentlessly as we drive through the city’s veins toward the underground games that await me. Risk, reward, danger—it is all there, waiting. And we are driving headlong into it. We pull up at the casino where I work, but in the loading docks. I peer out the window, wondering why we’ve stopped here and not the staff parking when I see the men from the house heading through a door at the back. Leone climbs out of the car, opens the rear door, and I step out. Milo keeps driving.

“Hey, where is he taking my father?” I demand, but Leone is already walking off. I curse, chasing after him.

“Mr. Presutti. Milo! Where is he taking my father?”

Mr. Presutti sighs heavily but answers; opening the door, and his men walk through. I find red carpet and black painted walls, which I recognize immediately to match Verdigris—underground casino.

“Leone, no more of this, ‘Mr. Pressutti’; it will drive me crazy when you lose and become mine. As for your father, he will be fine. Now.” Leone motions for me to enter. Immediately, guards step out from the corners, and one seizes my arm.

“I’ll be down soon; I just have a few things to take care of and a few phone calls,” he tells me, then peeks at the security guard inside the door. “Keep an eye on her until Milo or I return. No one is to go near her.” I stare at him, only for him to smirk.

“Prepare yourself, Fallon. This isn’t your average Friday night poker at the casino. The men down there,” he gestures behind me into the dark corridor. “Play for keeps. And they’re not forgiving of mistakes, so don’t provoke them.”

“Neither am I,” I reply.

“Good.” Leone claps his hands together; the sound is like a starting gun, and I turn to the stairs, only for him to grip my face and force my gaze back on him.

“Remember, Fallon,” Leone says, his eyes bearing into mine, “you’re gambling with more than chips and cash. You’re playing for lives. I find out you’ve caused trouble, you forfeit yours. I’ll see you soon.”

As he leaves, heading for the loading docks, I feel the weight of his threat settle across my shoulders, and the door closes, leaving me with two strangers who jerk me back to face the dim corridor.

My pulse thrums a relentless beat against my temples as the grip of one guard who seizes my arm tightens, his fingers digging into my flesh. We move through the dimly lit corridor, each step echoing off cold stone walls that seem to close in around me.

The scent of stale air and a faint whiff of mildew fills my nostrils, I focus on the rhythmic clack of my heels against the concrete floor, willing myself to appear unfazed. My feet are killing me. I’ve been in heels for over sixteen hours and can barely feel my toes.

“Scared, sweetheart?” the guard on my right taunts.

I shoot him a sidelong glance, my lips pressing into a thin line. “Fear is a luxury I can’t afford,” I snap back, my tone more confident than I feel. Fear has no place here—not when Leone is watching every move, or my father and sister’s lives hang in the balance.

“Good,” the second guard grunts, almost approvingly. “Because where you’re going, they smell fear and thrive on it. Don’t show any fear; they’ll devour you whole.” I nod, wondering why he offered his unsolicited advice, but I am grateful. It seems not all his goons are absolute assholes.

As we reach the end of the corridor, they stop abruptly, flanking me as one steps forward to push open a heavy double metal door. It groans on its hinges, protesting the invasion of light from the grim passage into the world it conceals.

The picture unfolds before me is one plucked from the city’s underbelly—a spacious basement sprawled out beneath the casino. Poker tables dot the area. The haze of cigar smoke hangs thick in the air, creating a veil which blurs the harshness of reality. Men and women from all walks of life are gathered around the poker tables. The women, some dressed for entertainment, others as typical mob wives, are not playing. A discernible difference exists between them, with the wives casting disdainful glances at the women sitting on their husband’s laps or at their feet. The fear in the eyes of the girls, whether they are here by choice or against their will, is palpable. The men, too, are a diverse group, their tattoos peeking out from beneath rolled-up sleeves, and their flashy jewelry catching the dim light.

The players, ranging from seasoned professionals in tailored suits to shady characters with tattoos, boots, and leather jackets, create an atmosphere thick with tension. As they lock eyes, their poker faces give nothing away.

“Welcome to the devil’s playground, doll,” the first guard sneers, giving me a nudge propelling me into the smoky expanse. “Don’t disappoint us now; keep your chin up. We’ll be watching you until Milo or Leone arrives.”

I gulp and swiftly nod. This is nothing like Verdigris; these men look as menacing as Leone, making Verdigris look like child’s play.

I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of tobacco and tension coat my lungs. My eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and I catalog every detail—the worn expressions of hope and despair, the subtle ticks and tells that betray nerves. But there is something far more sinister here: calculating gazes fall on me with interest as I walk through the room. The women on their arms wear a range of expressions—from bored to terrified—as they watch their owners play. Fear coils in my stomach, I could soon become one of them, but I stamp the emotion down and keep my gaze ahead. I approach the other side of the room where the booths are, deciding to observe a few games and wait.

Alone now, I lean against the locked double doors, allowing myself a moment to absorb the reality of what I have agreed to.

A shout draws my attention. Out of the corner of my eye, a table is upturned, and two men face off. One clearly does not like that he lost as he screams at the other man, insisting he cheated.

Inhaling deeply, I avert my gaze. With each step I take into the gambling pit, I shed a layer of doubt, cloaking myself in the armor of the persona I need to embody: one usually reserved for work.

“Quite the spectacle, isn’t it?” The voice slithers through the haze. I turn toward it, already knowing who I’d find emerging from the gloom.

Leone detaches himself from the shadows like a panther uncoiling from its lair. His presence fills the room. He prowls closer, his swagger slow and deliberate, his smirk sharp enough to cut you and bleed you out.

“You didn’t try to run. I’m impressed.”

“Leone,” I return, my voice steady despite the maelstrom within. I fix him with an unwavering stare, “Must I have you as an audience? I’m surprised you are not watching from afar, hidden somewhere surrounded by cameras?” I admit.

“Ah, but I’m not just part of the audience,” he retorts, closing the distance until I can see the darker flecks in his brown eyes.

“Then what?” I ask, bracing myself against the magnetic pull of his nearness. “You come to watch the ruin of those who waste their lives betting in these tunnels?”

“Something like that.” The amusement in his tone sours the air between us, and his gaze rakes over me, assessing, appraising. “I admire… potential. I’m hoping you lose. I could find a use for someone like you, with your talents.”