Chapter 28 – Marlowe
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MARLOWE
AMercedes van pulls up just after eight. Joel stands by the curb, hands in his pockets, looking as relaxed as ever. Vick flicks his cigarette to the ground, grinding it under his heel before gesturing for me to move. "This is us," he says.
I follow him into the van. Taylor slides in beside me. Zero takes the front passenger seat, and Joel climbs in last, slamming the door shut behind him.
The ride is silent except for the occasional rustle of Vick’s worn leather bag. He keeps a hand on it, fingers tapping against the surface. That must be where the money is.
By the time we pull up to the mansion, the sun is gone and the heat of the day has cooled into a brisk, clear night.
We park on the side of a massive house, all white marble and glass.
A bouncer stands at the gate, broad arms crossed over his chest, scanning people like he’s memorizing faces for a lineup.
When we reach him, he jerks his chin toward me first. "Arms up. "
I do as I’m told. His hands pat down my sides, lingering longer than necessary around my waist and breasts. “Really?” I snap.
“She’s good,” he grunts, then steps toward Vick, Zero, and Joel.
Taylor doesn’t get searched. No one even looks at her twice.
Inside, a couple of hired muscle stand near the entrance, watching everything. They don’t look like the type to hesitate if someone gets out of line.
The game runner steps forward, a man in a sleek black suit with slicked-back hair and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "You’re Lucky’s kid?" he asks, looking me up and down.
Vick claps a hand on my back. "Taught her everything I know."
I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
The game runner nods, but his gaze lingers, like he’s sizing me up. "No drinking too much, no drugs, no getting out of order," he says, voice even. "You get taken out if you cause a problem. Understand?"
I nod. "Got it."
The house is already full of players, most of them men in tailored suits, a few women hanging off their arms like accessories. Pretty girls in short skirts weave between people, carrying drinks, refilling glasses, whispering in ears.
Vick swings the leather bag around, unzipping it just enough for me to catch a glimpse of stacks of hundreds, thick and crisp. He pulls out a bundle and hands it over in exchange for a set of poker chips. A hundred grand—the buy-in. Jesus. That’s a lot.
Vick ushers me into an enormous room filled with six oval poker tables. At each one, a dealer shuffles cards with a smooth, practiced motion. A few players glance up as we pass, some with mild interest, others barely acknowledging us.
I take it all in, my gaze sweeping the room.
The tables along the back wall are piled high with sushi rolls and seafood platters.
My stomach growls, a sharp reminder that the only thing I’ve eaten all day is an entire pack of Fruit Roll-Ups.
I make a beeline for the food, grabbing a California roll and popping it into my mouth.
I don’t slow down, shoving another in, the flavor barely registering.
As I grab another, Joel’s hand lands on my back, forcefully guiding me to a table.
A pretty cocktail server appears beside me, setting a crystal glass of champagne on the table’s edge in front of me. I glance at Vick. He’s already in a chair, his eyes fixed on the tables with that familiar gleam of hunger. He’s right at home, already lost in the promise of me winning.
Joel leans in, his hot mouth hitting the shell of my ear. "Play like your life depends on it, sweetheart."
I elbow him away and pick up my champagne, taking a small sip. The bubbles burst against my tongue, crisp and cold. I slide into a chair and nod at the other players. Opposite me, the dealer stands in a pristine tuxedo and wavy blond hair tied back into a low, thin ponytail.
I glance around the table, taking in the other players. There are eight of us—six men and one other woman.
The woman stands out from the rest. She’s older, maybe in her early fifties, wearing a sleek navy dress with a pearl necklace resting just above the neckline.
Her silver-streaked hair is cut into a blunt pixie style.
She offers me a kind smile, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that doesn’t quite match the warmth in her expression.
A distinguished-looking man sits diagonally from me, his long Roman nose and overly bleached teeth catching my attention. “Danvers,” he says with a nod. “Nice to meet you.”
Next to him, a man around my age with a thick Italian accent flicks a chip between his fingers and offers me a sly smile. “Ciao bella, sono Elio.” His gaze lingers a little too long on the curve of my breasts before he flashes a wink.
To my left sits a short, quiet man, his fingers gripping his drink a little too tightly. Sweat beads on his forehead, and his hands twitch as he stares into the glass, lost in his own thoughts. He doesn’t look like he wants to be here.
Something we have in common.
I study each face carefully, memorizing details, watching their movements.
The man to my right leans back in his chair, cracking his knuckles, already at ease.
He’s done this before. Beside him, another man glances at his watch twice in less than a minute, impatience flickering in his every movement.
Further down the table, a man takes a slow sip from a short glass of amber liquid, his other hand idly shuffling his chips to keep his fingers occupied. He’s a talkative one, his laughter loud and abrupt at something the Italian man says. They both glance at me as they talk.
The woman, Pearl Necklace, I decide to call her, adjusts her stack of chips, aligning them in neat rows. Organized, careful, controlled.
The man gripping his drink keeps his eyes down, his lips pressed into a tight line. He’s the only one at the table who looks like the buy-in was something he shouldn’t be gambling with.
The dealer clears his throat and fans out the cards. “Everyone ready?” he asks, pulling them back and shuffling. He tucks his elbows close, palms up, and deals.
Each player pulls their cards into their hands, flipping a corner to peek at their luck. I pick up my glass and sip the champagne before I look at mine. A nine and seven, both diamonds.
Restless Watch Checker chuckles and points in my direction. “I think this might be someone’s first time.”
I don’t react.
Vick and Joel are somewhere behind me, close enough that I can feel their presence without turning around. I wish I could just take the bag of money and run, but it’s already short the buy-in amount, and God only knows what else he might have already spent from it.
The ace, seven, and king flop gives me a little something to work with. I check. Elio winks at me again and bets $5,000. Restless Watch Checker smiles, eyes narrowing slightly, and raises to $13,000. Everyone else folds.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Restless Watch Checker asks.
I match his stare, unblinking. “Lucky.”
Pearl Necklace lets out a quiet chuckle.
Restless Watch Checker tips his glass toward me. “Lucky, huh? Guess we’ll see.”
I only hit a low pair. I re-raise to $41,000. “What’s your name?” I ask politely. “I have you clocked as Restless Watch Checker.”
Restless Watch Checker studies me. He leans back, taps a finger against the edge of his chips, then folds. Smart. “Jarred.”
I take a sip of my champagne, set the glass down. The cards continue to heat up on a six of hearts turn. I fire out a bet of $58,000. Elio clicks back a raise to $175,000, but I don’t fold.
The four of hearts on the river doesn’t improve my hand, so I’m stuck with a low pair. I check. Elio announces an all-in bet of $235,000. His eyes are shifty. He doesn’t look confident. He keeps staring at my cleavage, licking his lips. I call.
And win.
“Neither of us had much,” he says. “It was, how you do say it? A game of chicken, yes?”
“Yes, it was,” I agree.
Pearl Necklace gives me a small, knowing smile.
I pull the pile of chips toward me, stacking them neatly. My hands don’t shake. My expression doesn’t change. But inside, I can feel it. The power shift.
We play five straight hands. I fold in some. I win in more.
Jarred gets tighter, more frustrated, the easy grins from earlier gone.
The nervous man folds too quickly every time, and I barely have to pay attention to him.
Elio flies through his money carelessly and brags about his billion-dollar trust fund.
Pearl Necklace stays calm, her focus unwavering.
She hasn’t won big yet, but she’s ahead of the men, just like I am.
She plays with skill, while the others play with emotion.
My father never really understood poker.
He always thought it was about luck—my luck, specifically.
Strategy never mattered to him. Honestly, it’s a bit of both.
In my eyes, there are only two ways to win at poker: either you have the superior hand during a showdown, or you deceive the other players into folding stronger hands than yours.
And right now, looking down at my chips, I’m up. I’m fucking up a lot of money.
The dealer calls for a break. Thank God, because I need one desperately.
I make my way toward the sushi table, rolling my shoulders, keeping my pace easy.
What I really want to do is run and shovel as much food into my mouth as I can.
Behind me, I feel heated stares. Jarred doesn’t hide the irritation in his eyes as he watches me walk away. He’s indignant. Pissed.
I pop a sushi roll into my mouth and pile a bunch more onto a plate. The ginger and wasabi hit too fast, burn through my sinuses, and I grab a glass of champagne, downing it to quench the fire.
"You play well," a soft voice next to me says.
I turn my head slightly. A waitress stands beside me, holding a tray, her posture relaxed.
But her eyes—big, brown, knowing—watch me carefully.
She’s beautiful. Petite, long chestnut hair, the silky kind you see in shampoo commercials.
She doesn’t look like she belongs in a place like this. She could be a model.
I glance at her, curious. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just tilts her head like she’s deciding how much to say. Then, quietly, she leans in. “I’m Neve. A friend of the Cross brothers.”
Butterflies explode in my chest. I straighten, my fingers tightening slightly around my champagne glass. “The Cross brothers?”
Her lips curve into a huge smile. “Bridger. Cody. Damian.”
My heart pounds. His last name is Cross. Damian Cross.
She’s watching me closely, like she’s trying to read my reaction. “I’m here to watch you,” she says. It doesn’t feel like a threat. Something in her tone is gentle, reassuring.
I force myself to keep my voice steady. “Where are they?”
“Close by.”
“Are they here?” I crane my neck around.
“No, outside. Waiting in a car.”
“Are they okay?” I ask, clutching her arm.
Her expression flickers—just for a second. Then she sighs, her voice lower this time. “No. Not really.”
A sharp, hot feeling presses against my ribs. Worry. Guilt. Fear. Before I can ask anything else, movement catches my eye. Pearl Necklace is walking toward us, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
Neve steps back smoothly, her hand adjusting the tray, slipping back into her role so effortlessly that no one would ever suspect we were just whispering about something that could get both of us killed.
I don’t move, my mind racing, my chest tight. “No, not really.” What does that mean? How bad is it? Did someone get shot? How much damage have Taylor and my father caused to this family?