Gamble

Chapter 12

FALLON

I glare at him, and he motions to the seat across from him. “You understand the stakes, Fallon?” His words slither through the haze, as acrid and potent as the smoke curling from his lips as he draws back on his cigar.

I narrow my eyes at him, “You’ve been watching me all night,” I accuse. He nods, leaning back in his chair.

“Watching, admiring, studying… You’re quite the sight, Fallon. A beautiful mystery wrapped in feisty audacity. You didn’t think it would be so easy, that I would just let you play the room and walk out of here?”

The room is a vacuum, absorbing everything. Every breath and sound is suspended in time.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, Fallon?” Leone’s voice is a velvet caress, yet it stings like a whip against my consciousness. “A dealer by day, a card counting thief by night. You played me, so now I play you.”

I can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with knowledge and dark intent. I offer him no answer.

“Observation is key in any game,” he says, a smile curling his lips like smoke from the devil’s cigar. “You know this. Especially when the stakes are as delightful as they are right now.”

“So you always play the winners?” I ask, knowing full well he does not waste his time like this.

“No, of course not, usually those I find cheating end up dead, but I figured I’d give you a chance. You are one of my best card dealers after all.”

I square my shoulders, thrusting my fear into the pit of my stomach, where it churns like a storm.

“Let’s just get this over with. I want to go home.”

“You’re so sure of yourself,” he laughs, motioning for the girl to deal out the first hand.

As the rounds progress, the clatter of chips becomes an eerie warfare as we play hand after hand. Leone plays his hand close to his chest, his face an impenetrable mask of concentration. Beneath the surface, I sense his enjoyment, a predator playing with his food.

“Check,” I murmur, my eyes darting from the pot to his inscrutable face. The world shrinks to a singular moment. The suffocating haze of cigarette smoke, the distant clinking of chips—all of it dissolves into nothingness until there is only Leone and me.

Leone’s lip curls upward, as he lays his cards down with deliberate slowness. “But is it good enough?”

My eyes are on the table waiting to see his cards hidden behind his hand.

“Hope is a cruel mistress,” he taunts, his eyes flickering over me like the touch of a shadow, but I smile in return when I see his cards.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not relying on hope.” My retort is steady, even if my pulse is a frantic in my veins as I lay my cards down, beating his.

“Indeed.” Leone leans forward, removing his jacket and rolling the sleeves of his shirt. His tattooed arms resting on the table.

The woman deals the next hand, and I slide my cards closer, peeking at them.

“Tell me,” Leone muses as he picks up his hand, the corners of the cards bending to his touch. “Does your heart always race this fiercely? Or is it my presence that quickens your pulse?” he asks, staring at my neck.

I fidget nervously with the chips. I can hear my blood roaring in my ears, so it’s no wonder he can see it pumping blood through my veins.

“Focus on your hand, Leone,” I reply, though heat creeps up my neck at the probing edge of his question. “My heart is none of your concern.”

“Everything about you is my concern, especially when you’re under my roof, playing at my table.” He tosses some chips onto the table, and I follow, doing the same.

I reveal my hand—a straight flush.

“Ah, got me on this one!” His chuckles, his composure remains unshaken, making me wonder if losing is another game. He is unshakeable.

“Easily,” I counter. “Especially when you’ve been underestimating your opponent.”

“Underestimating?” He stands slowly, every inch the king of his dark domain as the next hand is dealt. “Or perhaps I’ve been setting the stage for the grand finale.”

“Your theatrics don’t scare me.” I rise to meet him, and the space between us is charged with electric currents of animosity and an unnerving attraction I dare not dwell upon.

“Scared? Not yet.” Leone circles the table, a slow predator stalking its prey. “But hopeful, slightly intrigued—captivated, even—that’s the look I see in your green eyes.”

“Is your analysis necessary? Maybe you should focus on your hand, and the prize, you might win the next one.”

“Ah, but you are the prize, Fallon,” he murmurs, standing so close now I can feel the heat rolling off him. “And I always keep my eyes on what’s mine.”

“Nothing is yours until the game is over,” I breathe out, fighting the urge to step back. Instead, I hold my ground.

“Quite right, you are,” he murmurs and nods to someone. I realize it’s Milo. I also notice we are alone in here now—the dealer gone, and a fresh deck left on the table–no staff, gamblers, and none of his guards. I am about to question him when Leone speaks.

“Strip,” he commands.

“Excuse me?”

“Your clothes,” he clarifies, stepping closer, the threat in his tone is palpable. “Or your father’s life.” His ultimatum hangs in the air between us, heavy and menacing, when he pulls his gun from the waistband of his pants.

The click of a gun’s hammer c*****g back shatters the silence, and my bravado splinters along with it.

“No,” I say. The defiance in my voice is flimsy against the terror clawing at my insides.

“We both know you’re not in a position to negotiate.”

The heavy tread of boots on concrete approaches, and a door opens. Milo moves off to my side, only to reappear dragging a blindfolded figure stumbling behind him. My father’s face is obscured by the dark fabric, but the stoop of his shoulders is as familiar as my own reflection.

“Dad?” I murmur, horrified.

“Fallon?” my father blurts, hearing my voice, his head turning in my direction, hoping to see me through the blindfold. “No… No, she is innocent,” my father begs, and I move to go to him when he is shoved to the ground, and Leone steps in my way.

“This will be the last round, so I figured you should remember what’s at stake, but I want to ensure you don’t cheat,” Leone says. I glance at my father on his knees and see Milo whispering something to him.

He drops my bag from earlier on the floor, along with another bag filled with cash and my handbag, which I left at the house. My father sits at Milo’s feet, whimpering and sobbing. The head wound he received earlier, though, has thankfully stopped, and someone has wrapped his head.

“Let him go,” I demand.

“Strip,” Leone repeats, unmoved, twisting slightly and leveling the gun at my father’s head. “Or he dies.”