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“1508,” I tell him, and he punches in the numbers, unlocking it. He glances at the screen.
“You think your lover boy can save you from us?” he laughs wickedly, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Milo motions toward the door when I don’t answer.
I do as he says and reluctantly climb into the back of the car, sliding across the leather seat. Leone climbs in the passenger seat while Milo walks to the driver’s door.
Milo hands Leone my phone, and I reach for it, but he snatches it first. “She tried to alert her boyfriend,” Milo laughs like it is the funniest thing I could have done.
“So you and Marcus, huh?” Leone asks. I stare out the window. We aren’t a couple, but he doesn’t need to know that, especially if that makes him think someone will report me missing if I vanish. However, that theory is short-lived when he speaks next, and I realize he is reading our texts.
“You don’t seem as interested in him as he appears to be in you,” Leone states. His words catch Milo’s attention, and his eyes dart to mine in the rearview mirror.
“So he isn’t your boyfriend?” Milo asks. Leone answers for me.
“It appears he isn’t by these texts; it seems new and nothing official.” He laughs.
“Well, glad that cleared up. I would have been annoyed having to kill him when you become my whore,” Leone sneers. “He is a good card dealer,” he adds. I let out a breath.
“He gets in my way, though; I’ll let Milo have his fun with him.” My eyes dart to the front of the car. Milo’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, and I hate to think of his idea of fun. I doubt it’s the painless type.
My heart beats relentlessly as we drive through the city’s veins toward the underground games that await me. Risk, reward, danger—it is all there, waiting. And we are driving headlong into it. We pull up at the casino where I work, but in the loading docks. I peer out the window, wondering why we’ve stopped here and not the staff parking when I see the men from the house heading through a door at the back. Leone climbs out of the car, opens the rear door, and I step out. Only Milo keeps driving.
“Hey, where is he taking my father?” I demand, but Leone is already walking off. I curse, chasing after him.
“Mr. Presutti. Milo! Where is he taking my father?”
Mr. Presutti sighs heavily but answers; opening the door, I see his men walk through. I find red carpet and black painted walls, which I recognize immediately to match Verdigris—underground casino.
“Leone, no more of this, Mr. Pressutti; it will drive me crazy when you lose and become mine. As for your father, he will be fine. Now.” Leone motions for me to enter. Immediately, guards step out from the corners, and one seizes my arm.
“I’ll be down soon; I just have a few things to take care of and a few phone calls,” he tells me, then looks at the security guard inside the door. “Keep an eye on her until Milo or I return. No one is to go near her,” Leone tells his goons, and I look at him, only for him to smirk.
“Prepare yourself, Fallon. This isn’t your average Friday night poker at the Casino. The men down there,” he gestures behind me into the dark corridor. “Play for keeps. And they’re not forgiving of mistakes, so don’t provoke them.”
“Neither am I,” I reply, the words laced with the red-hot anger running through my veins.
“Good.” Leone claps his hands together; the sound is like a starting gun, and I turn to face the stairs, only for him to grip my face and force my gaze back on him.
“Remember, Fallon,” Leone says, his eyes bearing into mine, “you’re playing for more than chips and cash. You’re playing for lives. I find out you’ve caused trouble, you forfeit yours. I’ll see you soon.”
As he leaves, heading for the loading docks, I feel the weight of his threat settle across my shoulders, and the door closes, leaving me with two strangers who jerk me back to face the dim corridor.
My pulse thrums a relentless beat against my temples as the grip of one guard who seizes my arm tightens, his fingers digging into my flesh. The other looms silently beside me, a hulking shadow that quells any notion of escape. We move through the dimly lit corridor, each step echoing off cold stone walls that seem to close in around me.
The scent of stale air and a faint whiff of mildew fills my nostrils, but I focus on the rhythmic clack of my heels against the concrete floor, willing myself to appear unfazed. My feet are killing me. I’ve been in heels for over sixteen hours and can barely feel my toes.
“Scared, sweetheart?” the guard on my right taunts, his voice a low growl reverberating in the close quarters.
I shoot him a sidelong glance, my lips pressing into a thin line. “Fear is a luxury I can’t afford,” I snap back, my tone more confident than I feel. Fear has no place here—not when Leone is watching every move or my father and sister’s lives hang in the balance.
“Good,” the second guard grunts, almost approvingly. “Because where you’re going, they smell fear and thrive on it. Don’t show any fear; they’ll devour you whole.” I nod, wondering why he offered his unsolicited advice, but I am grateful. It seems not all his goons are absolute assholes.
As we reach the end of the corridor, they stop abruptly, flanking me as one steps forward to push open a heavy double metal door. It groans on its hinges, protesting the invasion of light from the grim passage into the world it conceals.
The picture that unfolds before me is one plucked from the city’s underbelly—a spacious basement sprawled out beneath the casino. Poker tables dot the area. The haze of cigar smoke hangs thick in the air, creating a veil that blurs the harshness of reality. Men and women from all walks of life are gathered around the poker tables. The women, some dressed for entertainment, others as typical mob wives, are not playing. A discernible difference exists between them, with the wives casting disdainful glances at the women sitting on their husband’s laps or at their feet. The fear in the eyes of the girls, whether they are here by choice or against their will, is palpable. The men, too, are a diverse group, their tattoos peeking out from beneath rolled-up sleeves, and their flashy jewelry catching the dim light.
The players, ranging from seasoned professionals in tailored suits to shady characters with tattoos, boots, and leather jackets, create an atmosphere thick with tension. As they lock eyes, their poker faces give nothing away, but the thrill of the game is palpable, coursing through their veins. Laughter and curses mingle with the chink of chips and the shuffling of cards, the sounds of sin that underscore the gravity of what I am about to do.
“Welcome to the devil’s playground, doll,” the first guard sneers, giving me a nudge that propels me into the smoky expanse. “Don’t disappoint us now; keep your chin up. We’ll be watching you until Milo or Leone arrives.”
