Gamble

Chapter 11

FALLON

“Fallon, are you there?” Dr. Stevens asks.

“I’m still here,” I breathe out.

“Just don’t cancel her surgery; I’ll come up with something,” I say firmly, wiping away the tears threatening to spill over. “I won’t let this opportunity slip away.”

“Good to hear. You have until 7:30 AM when the heart arrives,” he replies, and I hang up. My mind races, wondering if I win this if I can trade myself to Leone to have him cover the debt; it’s not like he can’t afford it, though I cringe at the thought of being pimped on the corner, but if I had to…

“Everything alright?” the dealer asks, and I nod, retaking my seat. Leone holds out his hand for my phone. I chew my lip, wanting to keep it.

“I won’t use it. Please, it was her surgeon; they found Emma a heart,” I plead.

“Did they now? What are the chances…” he states. He drops his hand and steps aside, letting me keep my phone. I leave it on the table where he can see it so he knows I intend to keep my word and not try to alert the police or Marcus.

I return my attention to the game. Luck must be on my side because the next set of cards falls perfectly in my favor. A pair of aces stares back at me, a promising start to what could be my winning hand.

Leone leans closer, his breath tickling the back of my neck. “You’re doing well,” he whispers huskily.

I quickly glance at him out of the corner of my eye, seeing excitement and something else flickering in his eyes. It’s then I realize that he, too, wants me to win this game, but why? Perhaps there’s more at stake for him than just being a spectator.

The tension reaches its peak as the final card is revealed. It’s an ace of spades—which gives me a full house. I study my last opponent, trying to discern their hidden signs. The twitch of his lips as he adjusts his position in the seat tells me he hasn’t got the best hand. Neither do I, but it’s pretty high up there, and this man hasn’t wavered all night, and that’s when I realize he’s bluffing. He’s hoping I fold.

I move to push my chips onto the table, and a hand falls on my shoulder. I peer up at Leone, who gives me a warning look. Hesitating, I gulp, doubting myself for a second before I shove the thought away. As I go all in, the room seems to hold its breath, and his eyes dart to mine. I see the oh f**k moment register on his face that I would even risk it, and I suck in a breath, knowing he’s bluffing as I lay my cards down.

Full house.

I fold my arms across my chest, waiting, and sweat beads on his forehead.

“Sir?” the dealer asks. I look at him expectantly when I notice the doors behind him open. Girls in uniforms file out along with men, and they start clearing the room, folding up tables except this one and an empty one at the back. Leone saunters over and takes a seat at it.

I return my attention to the man across from me, and he curses, tossing his cards and punching the table. He yells something in a language I am unfamiliar with, pointing a threatening finger at me and then at the dealer. By his body language, he is accusing us of rigging the game.

As Leone nods toward the man, guards swarm him, grabbing him and leading him out. However, my attention is drawn to a woman who has just entered, she begins preparing the last table. I grit my teeth, and the man is dragged out. I don’t move, wanting to call bullshit. He set me up. He said I had to play the room. So why hasn’t the last table been packed up?

Leone’s silhouette looms over the green baize of the lone poker table, a dark deity in his own temple. Our silence is punctuated by the click of his ring against the polished wood. Milo pulls me up by my arm. As I look at Milo, he says, “Last table.”

“He said I had to beat the room.”

Milo laughs. “You have one last player.” He points toward the last table. I peer around, looking for the player.

I thought I’d won, but I have one more opponent. Against the green felt, the overhead lights cast a halo. Touching the cool leather chair, my hands are sweaty. I can do this. I have to.

Instead of sitting, I turn, searching for my opponent. However, the chair remains empty, and in confusion I furrow my brow. This isn’t right. The final opponent should be here, waiting, anticipating my downfall or their own. I stand there, my pulse quieting, a sense of foreboding creeping into the hollows of my elation. Leone wanders off by the bar, talking on the phone. Milo is making himself a drink, and I glance at my phone on the other table, wanting to check it but hold myself back.

“Looking for someone?” he asks, his voice smooth as aged whiskey.

I turn, my feet slapping against the floor like the ticking of a clock counting down to an unknown end. Leone emerges from the bar area, his presence a tangible force that seems to suck the air from the room. His stride is predatory and deliberate, the dark ink of his tattoos poking out beneath his button-up shirt, which has the top three buttons open.

“Leone,” I acknowledge, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in my veins.

“Fallon,” he drawls, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. It is the smile of a wolf who has cornered its prey, the smile of a man who knows he holds all the cards—literally and figuratively.

“So where’s my last opponent?”

“Right here.” He gestures to himself. “Did you think I’d let anyone else have the honor?”

“You said I had to play the room. I did. You never mentioned me going up against you! I won fair and square!”

“But you haven’t. You still have one table to play,” Leone smirks. “Now you play the house.”