You are my everything =Is tú mo gah rud(Iss too muh gar rud)
Health to the men, and may the women live forever! =Sláinte chuig na fir, agus go mairfidh na mná go deo.(slawn-cha kwig nah fur, og-us guh mar-fig nah mnaw guh joe)
My seven blessings on you! =Mo sheacht mbeannacht ort!(Muh shocked bannocked urt!)
May you live long! =Go maire tú!(Guh morra too!)
May you live to be 100! =Go dté tú an céad!(Guh day too un cay-ad!)
God’s blessing on you=Beannacht Dé leat!(Bannocked day lat!)
May your journey be successful=Go n-éirí an bóthar leat!(Guh nye-ree un bow-her lat!)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Writing has always been a hobby for me, ever since I was little. But it wasn't until I took some time off from work to raise my daughter that I really had a little more time to set aside to properly focus on my passion and bring the very real people in my head alive on the page.
I find the best way for me to write is to immerse myself in a story, let my characters take me where they want to go, and hope for the best. When finishing a book, I always like to leave my characters at a point in their lives where I know that they are happy, in love, and hopefully, going to go off and live good lives without me looking over their shoulders. I hope that I have managed that!
When I'm not living in the world of my characters, I live in Brisbane, Australia, with my very understanding husband, our wonderful little girl and chilled out son, and our two energetic cats.
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Find out more about K.S. Ellis’ latest releases at ksellis.com
Read on to see what happens in Connor’s story, Bad Luck, availablehere.
Chapter One
CONNOR
The tow-haired frat boy on table three is on a winning streak. With every hand he wins, he gets louder and more obnoxious. If he keeps it up, I will have to get Niall or Paddy up here to sort him out. The lad’s on a hell of a hot streak, but all streaks eventually come to an end. The house always wins. It’s my job to make sure of it.
I’m standing in the middle of the largest room on the top level of Oracle, the strip club here in West Boston run by the Irish, and my cousin, Seamus Fitzpatrick.
When I first stood in this space, it was an empty storage room. Now, it’s a proper gambling den. The dark wood-paneled walls are polished and shining, contrasting well with the rich burgundy plush carpet, matching the felt tops of the five gleaming poker tables scattered around the room.
Each oval table seats eight gamblers and a dealer. The padded, striped chairs ring the table, comfortable enough for a gambler to sit for hours. I know as I’ve sat for many hours around these tables.
Large, lampshade-style chandelier light fixtures hang from the ceiling, illuminating the room. Heavy brocade drapes hang over the windows overlooking the street below. They are always drawn when this room is occupied. There is a car of undercover Vice cops which sits outside twenty-four-seven. We don’t want them catching a glimpse at the occupants of this room.
Seamus suggested installing a bar, but that would encourage hangers-on to stand around. The high rollers, in particular, wouldn’t like that. Instead, I have a bar in one of the smaller rooms and offer table service from the waitresses moving about in their sleek black trousers, crisp white button-down shirts, and black satin vests. The dealers are dressed the same, except they also wear black satin ties.
Striding across the room, I nod to a few regulars, tapping one of the frat boys’ table companions on the shoulder.
“A spot has opened up on table one.”
The Russian nods gratefully, gathering his chips and moving to the other side of the room. I sink into his chair, rapping my knuckles on the felt table to get the dealer’s attention.
Ryan nods, dealing me into the game as a pile of chips lands on the table in front of me, courtesy of one of the waitresses.
Seeing how cocky he is, it only takes about six hands to deplete the frat boy’s pile of chips significantly. He gets rowdier and angrier the more he loses.
He drinks more too. That’s an amateur move. Alcohol numbs your senses and makes it harder for you to hide your tells. It also makes it harder to read other people’s tells. A drunk mind is a dull mind.
I’ve seen the likes of this frat boy before. Harvard, by the looks of his preppy polo shirt. He’s come over to West Boston to slum it with the Irish Mafia.