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Chapter One
CORD
The buxom blonde sidled up to me at the poker table. I glanced up from my cards, irritated at the intrusion.
“Last night was fun,” she purred, leaning close enough to give a view of her silicone-enhanced cleavage.
“Thanks,” I muttered as I continued to study my hand and plan my play.
The girl’s overly lined lips turned downward to form a sparkly pink pout.
“Well, call me sometime, okay?” she said, laying a hand on my forearm. “You did put my number in your phone, right?”
“Yep, sure,” I nodded, remembering how I’d actually been scrolling social media when she recited the digits.
After a few more minutes, she finally wandered away and I exhaled.
“Your move, Mr. Romero,” the dealer reminded.
“I’ll raise,” I replied, sliding five one thousand-dollar chips across the table.
The man across the table from me chuckled as he slid five of his own chips into the pot.
“Do you even remember what her name was, Cord?” he grinned.
I smiled wryly and gave a slight shake of my head. “Haven’t a clue, Nate. And I think you’re getting to know me all too well.”
“You know what they say…keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” my business rival replied.
“Which of those two groups do I fall into, exactly?” I asked.
“I’m out,” the player to my left said with a thick accent, folding his hand and taking another sip of his whiskey on the rocks. I understood him to be some sort of royalty from Bahrain. A young and spoiled sort, and the type who always think they have it all figured out when they know zilch about how the real world operates. It’d been easy to call his bluff. The ice clinked in his glass prettily in contrast to the background ringing and whirring of the slot machines.
“Same,” said Massimo Galtieri, the ruddy-faced, barrel-chested man next to Nathan.
I was familiar with Galtieri, an international hotelier purported to have ties to the Sicilian mafia. He laid down his cards and picked up his Cuban cigar with one hand while reaching for the scantily clad woman standing behind him with the other. She caressed his upper back and simpered.
“I’ll raise,” Nathan said, smiling broadly as he scooted more coins into the pot. “To answer your question, Cord,” he continued, “I consider you as, shall we say, a worthy opponent? I’ve watched your rise to fame and fortune in the tech industry ever since you showed up in my sphere of acquaintance. Lucky break you had with that tax app you developed while you were still at MIT. What are you working on now, exactly?”
I guffawed, sliding more chips into the center of the table.
“I’m not that drunk, Nate. You’re my biggest competition.”
“I’m well aware that you and your fledgling company are giving my business a run for our money to speak in simple terms.” Nathan leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow, looking at me with an amused expression. For a man in his 50’s, the Nathan Hale was in great shape. His silver hair and goatee were immaculately groomed, and I’d never seen him wear anything other than custom-tailored business suits straight from Paris. I wondered if I’d turn out to be anything like him at that age. Maybe I’d be even richer.
“Call,” I said, motioning to the dealer.
He nodded and the three of us spread our cards face-up on the table.
Damn it. I groaned and raked a hand through my wavy brown hair when I saw Nathan’s straight flush to my four of a kind and the dealer’s simple pair.
“Pot goes to Mr. Hale,” the dealer declared, taking his rake and sweeping the chips towards my nemesis.
Nathan shook his head and chuckled. He turned to a member of his security behind him and pointed at the stack of chips. The sunglass-wearing brute stepped to the table dutifully and gathered them into a black velvet bag.
Nathan rose and walked around the table towards me. He clapped me on the back.
“Don’t look so glum, Cord. Let’s go have a seat in the bar. Next round of drinks is on me.”
