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“It comes with the territory,” I say, dealing another round as my heart pounds a warning against my ribs. It is essential to maintain the facade of the cool, composed dealer. But I don’t like how he’s reading me like I’m an open book. It’s almost as if he taunts me with the fact that he knows something I don’t. Fingertips graze the back of my neck as someone swipes my hair over one shoulder.
Then hands meet the table on either side of my hips, and heat presses against my back.
“Explains why she is our best dealer,” comes a deep, menacing voice behind me. His breath sweeps my neck, and Sondra’s gaze darts to mine before she quickly leaves the table, knocking her stool over as she does. My eyes go to Milo, who watches, almost amused at my discomfort, which worsens when Leone dips his face closer, his nose skimming the column of my neck as he inhales deeply. Milo smiles wickedly, and I gulp when I feel Leone’s hand brush one finger down my arm before it rests back on the table at my side. However, Milo’s following words send my blood cold while a chill ripples up my spine.
“I heard you’ve been playing yourself recently at Club Verdigris?” Milo asks, and my heartbeat thumps harder against my ribs.
It’s not a question, but a statement.
Since his statement clearly didn’t warrant an answer, I deal the cards. He stands up.
“Mr. Pressutti was interested in learning that his newest establishment was familiar with you, that you took out every table and walked out with quite the sum last night?”
Mr. Pressutti’s hand moves to grip my hip. He squeezes it, his fingertips digging in before his touch turns gentle. That same hand then moves, slipping beneath my blouse and caressing my ribs before he steps back. The heat of his chest leaves my back.
I swallow. It’s true, but not nearly enough to cover Emma’s heart surgery. Milo taps the table. “I’ll be seeing you later, Fallon,” Milo tells me with a nod. I watch him wander off, only to spot the floor supervisor watching me.
“Last hand, Fallon. Time for a break,” my supervisor calls out from across the room, sensing the tension. Crap! This is the last thing I need to be under the scrutinizing eyes of management.
“Sure thing,” I reply, waving Marcus over to take over my table while he’s empty. I stand up and stretch my legs, feeling the weight of the countless gazes upon me. I turn around, only to come face to face with the devil himself. Leone Pressutti.
My heart beats quicker when he raises his hand, cupping my neck while his thumb caresses my cheek.
“So innocent looking when she’s as guilty as sin,” he purrs, the pad of his thumb moving along my jaw, his hand on the side of my neck holding me in place. I hold his gaze unflinchingly despite his threatening demeanor and the urge to run from him.
Most people, after a few seconds, always look away. One way to make them look away is to stare at their forehead, especially in a place like this. Anyone rarely holds your gaze long, but he holds mine hostage, almost daring me to buckle under the weight of his.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir?” I murmur, but he doesn’t move. He tilts his head to the side, unblinking. His thumb trails slowly over my pulse point.
“Do I scare you?” he asks curiously. “Your pulse is beating rapidly beneath my hand.”
“No, sir. I am eager to go on my break,” I tell him. He chuckles, leaning in.
“Now that’s a lie, but I bet even lies taste sweet rolling off your tongue,” he whispers before letting me go and walking off.
As I step away from the table, my father brushes past me, his cart squeaking softly. Our eyes lock briefly, and I read the unspoken message: Are you okay?
“I’m fine,” I murmur under my breath, though he is already out of earshot, and I head out the back for a smoke, only to be stopped by Marcus.
“What was that about?” he asks, his hand gripping my forearm. I swallow, staring in the direction Mr. Pressutti and Milo walked off.
“I’m not sure,” I murmur, my eyes lifting to the kind brown eyes of Marcus. He glances warily in their direction as they slip out the back somewhere. He nods slowly.
“Are we still on for tonight?” he asks. I chew my lip; we are supposed to be going on a date after work. I promised him last week, but I’ve stood him up twice. Not that Marcus has complained; he knows how busy I am and understands more than most with his sister, who is also sick at the same hospital as Emma. It’s actually how we met. I ran into him in the halls and he offered me a lift to work when my car broke down. We knew of each other at the casino but hadn’t officially met until that day. There was something about living through the same hardship that seemed to bond us together. I like Marcus, but my life is far too busy for distractions. But it would be nice to pretend I’m normal like everyone else. Marcus sighs heavily.
“Maybe another time,” he says, reading the answer on my face.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him truthfully. Marcus nods slowly and cups my face with his hand.
“One of these days, you’ll say yes and actually mean it,” he tells me. I go to argue that I mean it, just that life gets in the way, but Marcus shakes his head. “Go, I understand. You don’t have to explain yourself,” he adds, reading the guilt on my face. I nod once and leave. Marcus is a good man, but I have no time for boyfriends, and he knows that. It just sucks because if I could date, he would definitely be my type.
Slipping into the back staff rooms, I press a cool can of Coke against my cheek from the fridge, seeking relief from the casino floor’s heat, and my mind drifts back to Marcus. His green eyes and sweet smile flash in my mind, reminding me of what could be mine. He’s lean but muscular, with light brown hair that always falls perfectly into place. As I exhale, Marcus’s words echo in my mind, reminding me of what I could have if only I could make room in my life for something more. But for now, my focus remains on Emma and trying not to get myself killed. It’s moments like these when I wish I had the time and emotional capacity for a relationship. Maybe one day, when my life isn’t so chaotic, I’ll be able to give him the chance he deserves.
The screen of my phone lights up with a message from Emma as I dig through my handbag for my smokes and lighter. Walking through back exits, which is staff only. I read her message.
Emma: Hey sis, how’s the queen of cards today?
I can’t help but smile. Her words are a calming balm to the constant thrum of anxiety that pulses beneath my skin these days. Every message from her means she is still hanging in there, despite how badly I know she’s given up.
