Page 8 of The Bratva King

I deal again. He busts on twenty-three. He snarls and narrows his eyes at me.

“Are you kidding me.” He slaps his palm flat on the felt, and the chips jump. “You did that on purpose.”

I flash a tight smile. “You do know that’s not possible, right?”

He leans forward, and his breath reaches me from three feet away. Whiskey and something sweet and rancid underneath. “Don’t use that voice with me. That little customer-service voice. I know what you’re doing.”

I tilt my head. “Dealing blackjack?”

The younger guy at the table snorts. “What an idiot.”

The drunk man’s face goes red. I roll my eyes. Why encourage the guy? I look toward Joel, one of the security guards. He’s focused on something else.

“One more hand,” I say. “Or I can call a chip runner, and you can take a break, get some water. Or coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee.” He shoves all his remaining chips forward. It’s a stupid bet, and we both know it. “Deal.”

I hesitate, because I know what happens when he loses, and he will lose. He’s not that lucky.

I look at security again. I’m not scared. That’s why I took the job. I’m surrounded by security. This guy might lose his shit, but it won’t last long.

But it does make me nervous. Drunk, violent men trigger memories I’d rather not revisit.

I deal.

He gets sixteen. The dealer—me—is showing a six.

Stay. Dealer’s weak. The math is in your favor if you stay.

He looks at me with suspicion. I can’t tell him what to do, but I wish he would just use some common sense. He waves his hand.

“Hit me.”

Moron.

I turn over a nine.

Twenty-five.

He stares at the cards. The silence lasts about two seconds.

“You bitch.”

I go very still. I’ve been called worse, but something about being on my aching feet, eleven minutes past when I should have been gone, and trying to do right by this miserable man is too much.

“Watch your mouth,” I snap.

“Fuck you! I know what you’re doing. You cheating bitch!”

I’m about to call security when a hand snakes around the man’s throat.

Long fingers with tattoos on the knuckles and the back of the hand. The drunk man goes up onto his toes, his face turning red as he slaps at the arm holding him.

The man holding him is tall. At least six-four. Dressed entirely in black, which is insane in July in Las Vegas. Dark hair. And even from here, even with his attention fixed on the drunk man whose face is going from red to purple, I can see his eyes are a startling, pale blue. Broad shoulders. Long legs. Thick arms straining against the sleeves of his shirt.

He says something. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. His tone is enough to keep me frozen, unable to look away. The man is terrifying.

Two security guards materialize, and the drunk man is escorted away. It happens so smoothly that it barely causes a ripple on the surrounding floor. A few heads turn, and then turn back to their games. People go back to their chips and drinks like they’ve seen this before.