I flinch.
She notices it and smirks. "Yeah, that’s what I thought. You have no clue what’s really going on. Don’t do anything nice for Damian, Lo. Trust me, he’s a piece of shit."
I press my lips together, my chest tight. "I’m not doing this for him."
She shrugs. “Then do it for Dad,” she says. “They’ll kill him.”
I exhale sharply, feeling the walls close in.
Taylor steps back, smoothing down her dress. "So stop being a little bitch about it and do what you’re clearly so good at."
I look at her, and for the first time, I really see her. There’s no saving her. She doesn’t want to be saved. And I’m completely, utterly alone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
DAMIAN
Fuck. This hurts.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MARLOWE
AMercedes van pulls up just after eight. Joel stands by the curb, hands in his pockets, looking as relaxed as ever. Vick flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel before gesturing for me to move. "This is us," he says.
I follow him into the van. Taylor slides in beside me. Zero takes the front passenger seat, and Joel climbs in last, slamming the door shut behind him.
The ride is silent except for the occasional rustle of Vick’s worn leather bag. He keeps a hand on it, fingers tapping against the surface. That must be where the money is.
By the time we pull up to the mansion, the sun is gone and the heat of the day has cooled into a brisk, clear night. We park on the side of a massive house, all white marble and glass. A bouncer stands at the gate, broad arms crossed over his chest, scanning people like he’s memorizing faces for a lineup. When we reach him, he jerks his chin toward me first. "Arms up."
I do as I’m told. His hands pat down my sides, lingering longer than necessary around my waist and breasts. “Really?” I snap.
“She’s good,” he grunts, then steps toward Vick, Zero, and Joel.
Taylor doesn’t get searched. No one even looks at her twice.
Inside, a couple of hired muscle stand near the entrance, watching everything. They don’t look like the type to hesitate if someone gets out of line.
The game runner steps forward, a man in a sleek black suit with slicked-back hair and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You’re Lucky’s kid?" he asks, looking me up and down.
Vick claps a hand on my back. "Taught her everything I know."
I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
The game runner nods, but his gaze lingers, like he’s sizing me up. "No drinking too much, no drugs, no getting out of order," he says, voice even. "You get taken out if you cause a problem. Understand?"
I nod. "Got it."
The house is already full of players, most of them men in tailored suits, a few women hanging off their arms like accessories.Pretty girls in short skirts weave between people, carrying drinks, refilling glasses, whispering in ears.
Vick swings the leather bag around, unzipping it just enough for me to catch a glimpse of stacks of hundreds, thick and crisp.He pulls out a bundle and hands it over in exchange for a set of poker chips. A hundred grand—the buy-in.Jesus. That’s a lot.
Vick ushers me into an enormous room filled with six oval poker tables. At each one, a dealer shuffles cards with a smooth, practiced motion. A few players glance up as we pass, some with mild interest, others barely acknowledging us.
I take it all in, my gaze sweeping the room. The tables along the back wall are piled high withsushi rolls and seafood platters. My stomach growls, a sharp reminder that the only thing I’ve eaten all day is an entire pack of Fruit Roll-Ups. I make a beeline for the food, grabbing a California roll and popping it into mymouth. I don’t slow down, shoving another in, the flavor barely registering. As I grab another, Joel’s hand lands on my back, forcefully guiding me to a table.
A pretty cocktail server appears beside me, setting acrystal glass of champagneon the table’s edge in front of me. I glance at Vick. He’s already in a chair, his eyes fixed on the tables with that familiar gleam of hunger. He’s right at home, already lost in the promise of me winning.
