I push my cards across the table and stand up, not sure I’m going to find out much more. There’s an uneasy truce between me and the Volos family, and I know they’re not pleased about me being in direct competition. And in truth, perhaps I opened up my casino partly to poke the bear. I don’t need it, after all. My venture capital firm brings in more than enough money on its own, but there’s something in my blood about casinos. Not gambling in them, but being associated with them.
A calling, I guess you could say. Something ingrained in my head since I first entered one when I was just twelve years old. That casino stood on the very spot where this one is now. And was, I suppose, the very same place, but that smoky back room was nothing like this. Smaller, dirtier, less civilized, at least on the surface. But still owned by the Volos family.
At the time, I was in awe of them. Now, the only thing keeping them from having me murdered is the fact I’m related through marriage and once held my tongue to protect them, meaning that honor forbids it.
Unless I step out of line in a way that can’t be ignored.
Which is why I really shouldn’t be here. Poking the bear is one thing, but kicking it in the balls is not to be advised.
I grab my dinner jacket and smooth my hair with my fingers, when my gaze catches on the beauty that has just snuck into the room, past the near-blind security. Or perhaps they let her through? Though she has to be too young to even be in a casino. And why the hell she’d want to be here I have no idea. But I’m frozen to the spot as I watch her.
There isn’t a dress code here, unlike my own private casino, but even so she stands out like rubellite in a sea of rubble. A white hoodie, cut-off shorts, laddered fishnets, leather boots, sunglasses balanced on her freckled nose. But above all that, hair that’s somewhere between brunette and redhead, with half of it dyed a bright, hot pink.
Scanning the other patrons, I look to see if anyone is staring her way, and thankfully find that I’m the only one. Right now, I think I’d murder any man I even suspected of ogling her. I can’t explain it, I’ve never had this reaction to a woman before in my life, but somewhere inside me two words are beating: she’s mine.
Mine to watch, mine to touch, mine to protect, even though we’ve never met.
I watch as she heads straight for a roulette table, and a couple of the women there turn her way. I’m ready to step in, but she seems comfortable. Far more comfortable than she should be around people like the owners of this place: the scum, the filth. She should be raised up on a throne, or carried over muck and water to save her perfection being touched by it. The women clearly know her, or were at least expecting her, as they reach into purses and hand her wads of bills, then she casually hands them off something from inside her hoodie, turns and goes to leave.
And that’s when her eyes catch mine over the top of her sunglasses, and I nearly come in my pants.
The flash of bright green cuts deep into my core, drawing me closer almost against my will. I feel my feet moving in her direction, but she frowns, pencil-thin brows drawing together, like she almost recognizes me and I know how she feels.
We’ve met before. Perhaps in another life.
And then she’s gone. What the fuck just happened? She was right there in front of me, staring my way, and now I feel the loss like a part of myself has been removed. I lust for another glimpse of those emerald eyes, that elf-like face, that pure beauty.
There’s a flash of a white hood, near the door, there and then gone again as the crowd passes between me and her, but I have to go after her.
“Sir, your chips,” the croupier says behind me, and I turn to see her staring at me.
“Keep them,” I say, nodding. “A tip.”
“But sir, there’s…” She trails off as I move away from the table. I know. Ten thousand dollars. A drop in the ocean for me, but hopefully enough to make a difference in her life.
As I press through the crowd, the mix of elegant dinner dress and casual jeans and shirts is almost comical, an indication of the strands of society that end up here. For some, this is a treat, an excuse to dress up, for others it’s just a way to feel something.
“Excuse me,” I say as I shoulder past a gray-haired man in a tux. “Sorry.”