Beautiful Sins

​The smoke inside the backroom of The Rusty Anchor was thick enough to chew, a toxic blend of cheap cigars, spilled bourbon, and the heavy, sour sweat of desperate men. ​Elena Vance didn't blink as she slid another card across the green felt table. Her fingers were steady, her face an unreadable mask of absolute boredom. She was twenty-one, a senior at Fulton University majoring in economics by day, and a highly efficient, unlicensed blackjack dealer by night. ​"Hit me," grunted Miller, a local dock foreman whose breath smelled like stale garlic. ​Elena flipped a card. A king. "Bust," she said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of sympathy. She swept his remaining chips into the house pile with a practiced flick of her wrist. ​"You're rigging the deck, Vance," Miller snarled, leaning his massive bulk over the table. "No college girl is this lucky." ​Elena leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. She wasn't wearing a modest cardigan or a school sweatshirt. She wore a cropped black leather jacket, dark jeans, and heavy combat boots. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy, utilitarian bun, and her eyeliner was sharp enough to cut glass. ​"If I were rigging it, Miller, I'd make it look less obvious so you'd keep pouring money into the pot," she said, her tone dripping with casual disdain. "You're just bad at math. Sit down or get out. There are people behind you with actual cash." ​A few of the regulars laughed, and Miller flushed a deep, ugly crimson. He reached out to grab her wrist, but Elena was already moving. Before his beefy fingers could make contact, she slid a small, silver switchblade from her sleeve, the blade snapping open with a lethal clack right beneath his chin. ​"Touch me," Elena whispered, her eyes narrowing into cold, predatory slits, "and I'll see how much of that bourbon in your throat I can let out." ​The room went dead silent. Miller swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing just millimeters away from the sharp edge of her blade. He slowly backed up, raising his hands. "You're psycho, Vance." ​"I'm expensive," she corrected, snapping the blade shut and tucking it away as if nothing had happened. "Get out." ​Ten minutes later, her shift was over. The bar owner, a crooked old bastard named Tommy, handed her a thick envelope of cash. "You've got balls, kid. But one of these days, you're gonna threaten the wrong guy." ​"The right guys know not to touch the dealer, Tommy," Elena said, stuffing the envelope into her boot. "See you on Thursday." ​She walked out into the crisp autumn night air, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. She didn't head toward the dorms. She didn't live there. She lived in a crumbling studio apartment three blocks off-campus, paid for by cash that the IRS would love to get their hands on. Elena wasn't a saint, and she had never pretended to be. When her older brother Marcus got himself killed leaving behind a mountain of debt to some very dangerous people, Elena didn't cry. She took over his turf, took his car, and started paying off the blood money dollar by dollar. ​She walked toward her ride—a beat-up, blacked-out '98 Chevy Nova with a modified V8 engine under the hood. It was loud, ugly, and faster than anything the local cops drove. ​As she unlocked the driver's side door, a shadow detached itself from the brick wall of the alleyway. ​"Elena." ​She didn't flinch. She just turned around, leaning her hip against the car door. "Marcus's debt isn't due until Friday, Leo. Why are you lurking in my alley?" ​Leo was a mid-level enforcer for the local street crews, a guy who thought he was a kingpin but was really just a glorified errand boy. Tonight, though, he looked frantic. His forehead was slick with sweat despite the fifty-degree weather. ​"I need a driver," Leo panted, looking over his shoulder. "Right now. Five minutes, in and out. The guy I had lined up bitched out. I'll take ten grand off Marcus’s tab if you get me to the docks and back." ​Elena raised an eyebrow. Ten grand was three months of dealing cards. "What's the job?" ​"Just a pickup. High-end electronics. Easy money." ​Elena knew a lie when she heard one. High-end electronics didn't make a seasoned criminal sweat through his leather jacket. It was something worse. Drugs, weapons, or worse—Marchetti territory. The Marchetti crime family owned the north side of the city, and they did not play nice with independent crews. ​She should have said no. She should have gotten into her car, drove to her apartment, and eaten stale cereal. ​But Elena Vance loved a bad idea if it paid well. ​"Twelve grand," Elena said, her lips curling into a sharp, dangerous smile. "And you don't say a damn word while I'm driving. Get in."