Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
SALVATORE
T he whiskey glows brightly in the glass and will burn a trail down my throat but do little to dull the ache inside me.
I hate this shit.
As the roulette wheel spins, gamblers watch with anticipation, their chips scattered on the green baize.
My pile of chips is high, but the euphoria of winning has long since faded. I always win. If not this time it will be the next. If I suffer a losing streak, it makes no difference because as fast as I gamble it away, it drops back into my bank account courtesy of the business I inherited.
Mafia business .
I own this casino, two down the block and several across the country. The whores who work the private clubs are my employees, and the drugs on the street are there courtesy of me. I am a monster and the devil all rolled into one sadistic package and I search for kicks in the unlikeliest of places.
The whiskey glass empties down my throat, and I don’t even blink. The burn faded long ago. The effects don’t remain for long and so I nod to the waitress who pours the waiting bottle into my glass for the fifth time tonight.
Her cleavage brushes against my arm and the provocative pout of her lips are directed at me, but I’m not interested in a sordid fuck with yet another whore. They all blend into one after a while and I’m bored with it.
The wheel stops spinning, but I don’t give a fuck if I win or lose. It’s as meaningless as my life and I observe the reactions of my fellow gamblers with interest.
Hope, greed, fear, and desire flicker across their faces as they wait for fate to play for them or against them.
As it drops on red twelve, I can almost touch the disappointment surrounding me as they lower their eyes in defeat. The croupier pushes the chips across the table toward me and the envious stares of the losers follow them.
The waitress whispers, “Who’s a lucky guy?”
I ignore her and merely grab a pile of chips and stuff them down her offending cleavage and say huskily, “Beat it.”
The gamblers either stay for another shot or slope away, and several new faces take their place. Then I see her standing hesitantly on the side, her tear-streaked face causing the mascara to paint her face in misery and her chest heaves from the desire not to cry.
Interesting.
She hovers behind a marker as if she’s uncertain what to do next and the croupier nods toward her. “Are you in? If not, please step back to let someone else take your place.”
Her fingers shake as she grasps her purse, and a flicker of defiance spreads across her angelic face.
“I’m in.”
She steps toward the table, and I run my lascivious gaze across her heaving chest, the whiteness of her skin in direct contrast to her dress and she fumbles in her purse for a handful of chips that are much less than I stuffed down the waitress’s dress.
She is fighting demons for sure as she sweeps the wheel with a frantic gaze and then glances at the man beside her who pushes his chips on four. He takes pity on her and whispers in her ear and she smiles, a fleeting glimpse of humanity in the shell of a broken woman.
Just how I like them.
I shift in my seat and push my chips on the number ten, and she claims lucky number seven. She bites her lower lip as she fidgets uncertainly on the spot and doesn’t tear her gaze away from the wheel.
I stare at her unashamedly as she hyperventilates before my eyes, and I note her pale blonde hair pulled tightly back in a bun. Her red-painted lips quiver with fear and her chest heaves as she struggles to breathe. A simple black dress clings to her ample breast and her slender waist dips in as her hips swell in all the right places.
She is a work of art. A tragic painting of a goddess who has fallen from a great height and I wonder how much further I can pull her down.
My cock throbs as it senses a game about to start and it’s not the one about to happen before her fearful eyes. She is right to be afraid, but not of losing. She is about to discover that ruin takes on many forms and gambling is the least of her problems. She has fallen into my sight and I’m a hunter who enjoys the chase, so I sip my whiskey with my eyes fixed firmly on her, studying every reaction to the game that is about to ruin her life.
“Nine wins.” The croupier announces, and the man to my right yells in victory.
The croupier pushes the chips his way, and I’m fascinated by the stricken expression on the intriguing woman’s face.
As the game resumes, I can tell she is thinking hard and she removes a smaller pile of chips from her purse and places them against number seven with shaking hands.
She’s all out. This is make or break and I wonder what her story is.
Once the bets are set, the wheel spins, and the bastard in me hopes she loses. She will be easier to exploit when she has nothing, and I find myself holding my breath as the wheel makes its journey.
“Number three wins.” The croupier announces, and the woman staggers away from the table, her fingers brushing the tears from her eyes.
I nod to Sinclair, my consigliere, who takes my place and as she walks away, I am firmly behind her.