Yep. That’s definitely it. And suddenly, it occurs to me that I may have a very elegant solution to the McErlane dilemma within reach.
Keep your friends close…and your enemies closer.
And how much closer could she get than on the end of my dick?
My smile broadens.
“Don’t you fuckin’—” Tommy begins.
“Well, enough of all this,” the senator interrupts. “We’re here to woo Lady Luck.” He squeezes the McErlane girl’s ass, making my teeth set on edge. She looks distinctly uncomfortable.
Screw it. She deserves it.
“Sounds good to me, Senator,” I say, allowing the girls to link their arms through mine again. “Let me take you to our private gaming room. We reserve it for only our most special guests.” I aim a wink at him, and the man practically preens. God, he’s an ass. He bolts forward to fall in step beside me, hauling Buttercup along with him.
Buttercup. Hah!
“Guttersnipe” would be more appropriate.
I ignore them as we move through the crowd toward a pair of dark doors with heavy gold handles, barred by a pair of Pitbulls in tuxedoes. At my nod, they open the doors, and we enter the inner sanctum.
If the rooms outside were opulent, this place takes the word to new heights. Dario designed it for visiting “whales” – the big spenders who’ll blow a million or more in a night. Muted lighting and thick black carpets give the sense of walking into a mystical cave. As we arrive, a string of servers emerge from the shadows. Ice buckets filled with vintage Dom Perignon are quickly set out at the large poker table in the center of the room.
Soft music swirls around us as half-naked women perform on a stage set behind a glass panel at the back of the room. Senator Robbins leers and licks his lips, openly ogling them, while Tommy McErlane gives a mutter of distaste.
“Ahhh, now this is more like it,” Robbins croons, turning and sinking into a plush red velvet seat near the head of the table. As if by magic, a croupier has taken up position, sliding a dealer shoe of cards onto the table.
A floor manager steps to my side, and I nod in assent as he confirms that there will be no table limits for the night.
Of course, there won’t. There never are for the types who bandy their bankrolls around in here.
“Any chance I can bring in some associates to make things interesting?” Robbins asks. He’s positioned McErlane’s daughter at the side of his seat, running a hand up and down her arm in a way that makes my fists want to clench.
“With pleasure, Senator. Give a list to my man, and he’ll have them brought in.”
McErlane slouches into a seat flanked by a pair of goons and makes a distracted gesture at a waiter. After a brief exchange, a bottle of Talisker is set on a silver trolley at his side. I’m guessing McErlane’s watched one too many episodes ofRay Donovan– but thankfully, he opts for a tumbler rather than drinking straight out of the bottle. Of course, there’s still time for that to happen. The night is young yet.
After seeing that the staff are ready, I take a seat across the table. I settle back into the high, velvet-upholstered wingback, nodding as a server offers me a choice of imported cigars. Smoking laws be damned. We do what we want in here.
“Sir, our seating is now complete,” the floor manager murmurs discreetly minutes later. There’s a low babble of conversation as the others settle themselves. Russians, Chinese, a couple of Armenians, some locals, and others I can’t identify. The crème de la crème of fucked up society seems to be drawn to Robbins like shit to a shoe.
“Right!” says the senator, clasping his hands together and then cracking his knuckles. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we, gents?” He’s grinning like a shark, nodding and smiling at those gathered with us. Most of them nod back. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a few quietly slide slips of paper his way. Probably fat “funding” checks. Corrupt fuck.
The dealer is moving swiftly, efficiently. Towering stacks of chips are being set out in rows. While the chip values in Dario’s regular casino are topped at ten thousand, in this room, that’s the starting bet, with $100k chips being tossed around like candy on a playground.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the dealer murmurs politely. “Are we ready to begin?” Voices rise in agreement, and he starts to deal out cards.
Less than an hour later, over a million has crossed the table. Robbins’ cheeks have taken on a flush of color – partially from the half-dozen glasses of French champagne he’s already tossed back, but most likely due to the excitement.
“Straight flush, Jacks high!” Robbins chortles, splaying his cards on the table. McErlane sets out four of a kind, his lip curling. I’m pretty sure we’re reaching the point where he’ll be pulling a swig straight from that bottle. The man’s dropped at least half a million already.
“Ahh, too rich for me,” I murmur, setting out two pairs. Nobody needs to know I ditched several cards that would have given me a stronger hand. I sit back as Robbins starts scooping in chips, teeth clamped around a fat cigar. His puff of smoke has the woman behind him stepping back, looking queasy, and I run a lazy eye over her.
Emma McErlane is beautiful, no doubt about it. More lush than I remember. Full tits strain at the low-cut bodice of her dress in a way that has my mouth watering. Washed clean and made up for the evening, she’s classically lovely in a peaches-and-cream kind of way. But there’s a glow to her that seems to transcend artful cosmetics. Though I guess when we met, I’d just hauled her out of that stinking Bratva cesspit. Not that it mattered. She made my balls pull tight then, and she does the same now. Pristine satin clings to soft curves and offsets smooth, creamy skin. Skin I can still remember beneath my fingertips, my tongue. I shift in my seat.
Fuck.
My cock’s pressing against my zipper.
