I pull the pile of chips toward me, stacking them neatly. My hands don’t shake. My expression doesn’t change. But inside, I can feel it. The power shift.
We play five straight hands. I fold in some. I win in more.
Jarred gets tighter, more frustrated, the easy grins from earlier gone. The nervous man folds too quickly every time, and I barely have to pay attention to him. Elio flies through his money carelessly and brags about his billion-dollar trust fund. Pearl Necklace stays calm, her focus unwavering. She hasn’t won big yet, but she’s ahead of the men, just like I am. She plays with skill, while the others play with emotion.
My father never really understood poker. He always thought it was about luck—my luck, specifically. Strategy never mattered to him. Honestly, it’s a bit of both. In my eyes, there are only two ways to win at poker: either you have the superior hand during a showdown, or you deceive the other players into folding stronger hands than yours.
And right now, looking down at my chips, I’m up. I’m fucking up a lot of money.
The dealer calls for a break. Thank God, because I need one desperately. I make my way toward the sushi table, rolling my shoulders, keeping my pace easy. What I really want to do is run and shovel as much food into my mouth as I can. Behind me, I feel heated stares. Jarred doesn’t hide the irritation in his eyes as he watches me walk away. He’s indignant. Pissed.
I pop a sushi roll into my mouth and pile a bunch more onto a plate. The ginger and wasabi hit too fast, burn through my sinuses, and I grab a glass of champagne, downing it to quench the fire.
"You play well," a soft voice next to me says.
I turn my head slightly. A waitress stands beside me, holding a tray, her posture relaxed. But her eyes—big, brown, knowing—watch me carefully. She’s beautiful. Petite, long chestnut hair, the silky kind you see in shampoo commercials. She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place like this. She could be a model.
I glance at her, curious. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just tilts her head like she’s deciding how much to say. Then, quietly, she leans in. “I’m Neve. A friend of the Cross brothers.”
Butterflies explode in my chest. I straighten, my fingers tightening slightly around my champagne glass. “The Cross brothers?”
Her lips curve into a huge smile. “Bridger. Cody. Damian.”
My heartpounds. His last name is Cross. Damian Cross.
She’s watching me closely, like she’s trying to read my reaction. “I’m here to watch you,” she says. It doesn’t feel like a threat. Something in her tone is gentle, reassuring.
I force myself to keep my voice steady. “Where are they?”
“Close by.”
“Are they here?” I crane my neck around.
“No, outside. Waiting in a car.”
“Are they okay?” I ask, clutching her arm.
Her expression flickers—just for a second. Then she sighs, her voice lower this time. “No. Not really.”
A sharp, hot feeling presses against my ribs.Worry. Guilt. Fear. Before I can ask anything else,movement catches my eye. Pearl Necklace is walking toward us, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
Neve steps back smoothly, her hand adjusting the tray, slipping back into her role so effortlessly that no one would ever suspect we were just whispering about something that could get both of us killed.
I don’t move, my mind racing, my chest tight. “No, not really.” What does that mean? How bad is it? Did someone get shot? How much damage have Taylor and my father caused to this family?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
MARLOWE
The break is almost over, but no one seems in a hurry to return to their tables.
Across the room, Joel and Vick are already celebrating. Their laughter cuts through the low hum of the crowd, smug, loud, and far too confident. Joel lights a cigar with a flourish, the tip glowing bright red before he exhales a thick cloud of smoke. Vick clinks his glass against Joel’s, eyes glossy and cheeks flushed from too much booze and a victory he hasn’t even earned. They’re drunk on it. Drunk on my wins and the illusion that they’re already millionaires.
Vick’s tie hangs loose, his mouth running nonstop. Joel lounges back on a plush couch, one arm draped over Taylor’s bare shoulders like she’s his personal trophy. His other hand waves his glass around as he talks.
The sharp, bitter scent of cigar smoke drifts toward me, curling around my senses, and I can’t tear my eyes away from them. Joel catches me watching. A smug grin spreads across his face as he lifts his glass in a mocking toast. Fiery rage rips through me. I want to wipe that smirk off his face. Make him suffer. Feel even a fraction of what he’s put me through.
