“Uh- I…yes,” I manage to husk out. My heart’s in my throat, fluttering like a caged bird.
“You do the designer a credit, Miss McErlane,” he says. “You are ravishing in it. A rare beauty.”
My cheeks flame so hot that I’m sure there must be heat waves shimmering over my head. I rack my brain to come up with something suitably sophisticated in response, like “Screw you, tosser,” but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is, “Yeah. Uh- cool.”
Yeah, cool? What the hell, Emma?
Because nothing is cool right now. My life’s a hot mess. And as Raoul Caraldi runs those eyes over me again, I realize I am too.
Chapter 6
Raoul Caraldi
“Keep your fucking eyes to yourself, Caraldi,” McErlane snaps. “And play your damn cards.”
I grin around my cigar because I know I’m getting to him now. Time to take this little charade to the next level.
“Looks like I’m running low.” I flick a fingertip at my small pile of chips. “Shall we get out of the sandpit and start playing like big boys now?”
I hear laughter, which doesn’t surprise me. I’ve taken care to lose almost every hand.
“Your funeral, Caraldi,” McErlane mutters.
“I’m game if you are,” Robbins laughs. There’s an answering chuckle from around the table. I raise a finger at the floor manager, who brings out a dark box inlaid with silver. The man uses a small key to open it, and something gleams from within. I’ve been waiting to introduce these – Dario’s extra-special gambling chips seldom see the light of day.
“Ahhh…” says the senator, reaching in and extracting something. “Now, don’t these look interesting.” He flips a platinum disk between his fingers with practiced ease. Black diamonds glitter around the edges of the chip as they catch the low light. “What’s the value on this, Caraldi? I don’t see a number.”
I give him a slight smile, peering at him through a puff of blue cigar smoke.
“Bettor’s choice,” I say. Robbins cocks his head. “When you want to up the stakes beyond the value of what’s on the table,” I explain further
“You mean we get to choose what we wish to bet? Not just money?” The swarthy guy at my side is suddenly alert, dark eyes sparkling. From the look of the man, he’s brought oil money. Several robed Arab men across the room avert their eyes as their boss downs a deep mouthful of bourbon.
“Precisely, Your Highness.” I take another puff from my cigar. “Although the item in question must be worth more than a million.”
The senator looks like he’s ready to pee his pants.
“Well, what are we fucking waiting for?” he blurts, rapping his knuckles on the table. I nod at the dealer, who begins dealing cards again. As much as McErlane is balking, I can sense his attention spiking. The man’s a notorious gambler. I heard he once lost his own mother’s wedding ring in a card game – a family heirloom that had been passed down for generations.
As I look at the drawn features of the woman reluctantly hovering between the seats occupied by Robbins and her father, I get a measure of the man. There’s no room for sentiment in his world. He only gets pissed when I look at his daughter because his ego is being bruised. As the cards are dealt, he sets out a pile of chips for half a mill.
Getting warmer…
“I’ll see your bet and raise you…” I toss down a platinum chip, “my Aston Martin Valhalla.” I reach for my drink and take a slow sip, eyeing the small group across the table from me.
“Ahh…very nice, my friend,” the man beside me comments. “And I have the perfect place for it in my collection.” He chuckles darkly. “I will see you and raise you my Bentley Mulliner.” I grin back at him.
“Good choice, Ali,” I respond. Half a bottle of Macallam into the evening, and the Sheikh and I are getting close. Others around the table are getting in on the action. There are ten of us in total – slightly bigger than my ideal table, but it’s made for some interesting gameplay.
The senator is flushed with excitement, while McErlane has gone tense and quiet. Opposite sides of the same crooked coin. It doesn’t surprise me that the Irish mobster would have chosen this man to play politics with. McErlane scowls and tosses several more chips down, bringing his bet up to match those on the table. So far, he’s given no hint of calling for any of the platinum chips, but I know it’s only a matter of time.
I’m fighting back the urge to laugh when I set out my four aces. Robbins’ unmatched flush isn’t enough to beat it, and nor is McErlane’s full house. One by one, the others fold, and I’m left raking in a pile of chips that’s probably worth enough to fund a war in a small country.
“Motherfucker,” McErlane spits.
“Lucky break,” Robbins puts on a show of being unaffected, but I can sense the tension building between them. It’s only a matter of time before I have them exactly where I want them.
“Nicely played, my friend,” Ali says at my side. “I was so certain you were bluffing.”
