Sam glanced at my outstretched hand, hands still in his pockets, his posture lazy. He was in no hurry to answer.
He obviously savored this moment. Our first public exchange in the ten years since we’d known each other.
“You mean five million dollars a hand.” He smirked.
“Dang!”
“Oh my!”
“Bryan, you gotta come here.”
Our audience grew as more men yelled and gasped to each other, people trickling from nearby rooms, craning their necks as the thick circle of bodies around us grew bigger and tighter. I felt the ring of men around me, like it was squeezing my neck. Cigarettes were put down, drinks were left unattended, everyone waited to hear my reply.
“Famous last words.” I hitched one shoulder up, raising my untouched hand an inch, hysteria clogging up my throat. Just because I had this kind of money didn’t mean I wanted to see twenty-five million dollars flushed down the drain in half an hour.
I felt my armpits dampen and started second-guessing my coming here.
Why did I want to push him so much?
“And if I win…” he raised his palm up to stop me “…you marry me.”
The dealer looked between us, dropping the stack of cards in his hand in shock. The middle-aged man who propositioned me rubbed his hands together.
“This is gonna be a story to tell my grandchildren.”
I stared at Sam silently, stone-cold sober, searching for mockery in his eyes. I found none, but I still couldn’t believe my ears.
“It’s not funny.” My voice came out gravelly, crawling its way out my throat.
“I’m not laughing,” he countered softly, his eyes never leaving mine, delivering the final blow. “Oh. And no prenup.”
“Ohhhh!”
Men bent backward, slapping their foreheads dramatically. I was lucky I was propped against the table because every muscle in my body ceased to work.
I wondered if it was another stop in his destination to full domination over Boston, marrying into the richest family with no prenup. Was I just a pawn in his game? Another juicy deal waiting to be sealed?
“Sweetheart, Brennan’s a top-notch mathematician. Crazy good with numbers. Run, don’t walk,” one man hollered from the depths of the room.
Sam smirked, neither confirming nor denying it.
“I know your older brother, little Fitzy. Say yes and I’ll have no choice but to call him,” another young man shouted.
Smiling and refusing to withdraw my hand and cower like everyone expected me to, I said, “Wouldn’t you like that, Samuel Brennan? The son of a whore, born without a dime to his name, married to one of the richest women in the western world. You’ll be eligible to half my fortune.”
“I know,” he said calmly. “Which means you’ll think twice before leaving me.”
Our audience laughed and hooted loudly.
“I’m not giving you half my kingdom,” I enunciated, my voice clear and unwavering.
“I don’t give a fuck about your kingdom, sweetheart. Mine is bigger in all the ways that matter. Believe it or not, the number in your bank account is not as powerful as my hold on the East Coast.”
“I don’t believe you,” I lied.
“Take the stakes or leave this room, Miss Fitzpatrick, but do it now. I’m running a well-oiled operation here, and every moment people don’t spend their money on these tables costs me.”
“Marry you,” I mouthed the words rather than said them aloud, shock still gripping me. My father was going to kill me. Cillian and Hunter were going to burn whatever was left of me. Yet somehow I believed Sam’s motive wasn’t money. He had enough of it.
He wanted to trap me. And me? I wanted to be trapped.
“Fine,” I said shakily, my stomach turning a hundred times over.
Sam finally clasped my hand in his, but instead of shaking it, he used our entwined fingers to jerk me toward him, pressing a very public, very possessive kiss on my mouth.
“We have a game. They’re going for it!” A young man in a sage green velvet suit jumped up from his seat. There was chaos in the room for the next few minutes, and I tried to gulp deep breaths and tell myself it didn’t matter. None of it did. I could dig my way out of this. Maybe.
The stakes for a game were never this high in the history of Badlands. Bookies rolled in from other rooms to take bets on the game, holding clipboards with spreadsheets, taking names and numbers and odds. I recognized Becker and Angus, the soldiers I had treated last year, shuffling about, whispering between them as they placed their bet against me.
There was a human traffic jam outside the door to the card room, and I could barely breathe when I heard the bouncers physically pushing people away.
We both took our places in front of the dealer, whose golden nametag said Daniel. I drummed my fingers against the green felt of the table. Sam stared at me. I refused to look back at him.