Page 71 of The Bratva King

I take my place behind the table, smile at the couple waiting, and begin the chip count with the dealer I’m relieving.

My face is warm, and I keep my eyes on the cards. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. He was making sure I didn’t feel used or pressured. He meant well, even if the way he handled it was all wrong.

I deal the first hand.

He thought I was paying him. He assessed me kissing him and determined that I was a woman settling a debt with her body.

Maybe I am.

I deal the second hand.

The man at the end of my table wins and pumps his fist.

I slide his chips over and smile like my whole face isn’t on fire. I don’t look up at the window, but I feel his eyes on me.

A man takes the seat at the end of my table as I start a new shoe. I notice him the way I register everyone. A man, maybe fifty. Neat clothes. Not flashy. A polo shirt and slacks that fit well. No visible jewelry except a watch. Not an expensive one. Brown hair in a horrible comb-over. He sets down a modest stack of chips and arranges them with two fingers.

I offer a slight smile and deal.

“You look familiar,” he says.

I keep pulling cards.

“I get that a lot,” I say pleasantly. “Dealer face, probably. We all start to look the same after a while.”

“Maybe.” He continues to stare at me a little too long.

I deal the hand. He looks at his cards. Seventeen. He waves off, and I turn over my hole card. Nineteen. I collect his chips, and he nods like he expected it.

“You from Vegas originally?” he asks.

“Nope.” I keep my voice easy. Friendly. The voice I use with everyone. “You?”

“No,” he says. “I travel a lot for work.”

“What kind of work?”

“Finance,” he says.

Small talk is part of the game. The friendlier I am, the more tips I get. I’m good at this. I can read people and figure out how much to say and when a jealous wife wants me to back off.

“I’m trying to place it,” he says. “The face.”

“I just have one of those faces,” I say. “Very common.”

My voice is calm. My smile steady. My heart is a different story. I keep my breathing even and don’t let my racing pulse show.

I watch him too, just not as obviously.

He’s not a tourist.

He wins the hand.

“Were you ever in New York?” he asks.

Shit.

I don’t feel a spike of panic. Just the kind of cold that comes right before something bad happens.