The casual cruelty hits me like a slap. Even now, even when I’m clearly in trouble, he can’t resist twisting the knife.
“Damn it, Eric, this is serious. There are men here looking for you.”
“Don’t tell them where I am.”
“I don’t know where you are! I need you to tell me.”
“Screw that. Those guys are bad news.”
His tone is nonchalant, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my potential murder. This is the man I once loved, who promised to protect me, who swore our wedding vows would mean something. The man I stayed with through blackouts and broken promises, thinking I could save him from himself.
“Why are they looking for you? What did you do?” My voice comes out shrill.
“I owe them money. They work for a loan shark.”
My free hand clenches into a fist. I should have known. Eric’s always been a magnet for the worst kind of trouble—the expensive kind that comes with interest rates that’ll break your legs.
“Damn it, Eric,” I say, my eyes flicking to Mustache watching from the doorway. “They seem really angry. I think they mighthurt me.” I keep my voice low, but not so low that it looks like I'm hiding something.
“You’ll be fine.”
Those three words are a door slamming in my face.You’ll be fine.Like I’m asking him to spot me twenty bucks, not save my life.
Please. If you care about me at all, you’ll tell me where you are.”
“So they can hurt me?” He scoffs. “I’m not stupid.”
No, but he’s heartless. I knew that, somewhere deep down. But hearing it confirmed while I’m standing in a room with dangerous men hunting him down? That particular brand of betrayal cuts deeper than I expected.
“Maybe you can work something out with them,” I whisper, not wanting Mustache to hear. “A payment plan or something.”
Eric’s laugh is sharp and bitter. “You’ve always been naive, Nina. These aren’t the kind of people you negotiate with.”
“Just tell me where?—”
The line goes dead.
Son of a bitch.
I stare at the phone for a second, part of me hoping he’ll call back, apologize, tell me where to find him so this nightmare can end. But the screen stays dark. Eric has made his choice, and it isn’t me. It never was.
When I turn around, Mustache is no longer in the doorway. I can hear him in the kitchen, and some waitress is giggling like she thinks his menacing vibe is sexy. Apparently, not everyone has my finely tuned danger radar.
His back is to me, and suddenly I’m moving without conscious thought. Every survival instinct I’ve honed over years of living with an abusive drunk is screaming at me to run. I’ve survived worse than this. I’ve crawled out of darker holes.
I’m not going down without a fight.
I sprint through the kitchen, colliding with Marco hard enough to send him stumbling into the counter. The swinging door to the dining room nearly takes my head off as I burst through it, but I don’t slow down.
“Hey! Get back here!”
Not happening. I weave between tables like my life depends on it—which it probably does. A tourist drops his fork as I streak past, sauce splattering across his “I Vegas” shirt.
I burst into the casino and immediately spot Big Guy near the entrance, walking back toward the restaurant at a leisurely pace. He sees me at the same moment I see him, and his expression shifts from bored to predatory in a heartbeat.
Panic floods my system as I pivot deeper into the casino. The assault on my senses is immediate and overwhelming—slot machines screaming their electronic victories, cigarette smoke burning my lungs, the artificial chill of over-cranked raising goosebumps on my arms. Everything is too bright, too loud, too much.
I’ve avoided the casino floor for the entire time I’ve worked here, sticking to the straight path from the entrance to the restaurant. Now I’m lost in a maze of flashing lights and desperate gamblers, my heart hammering against my ribs as I try to disappear into the crowd.
