Crown Jewels (Behind The Lens #5)

Chapter 1

VAHN

Typically, there were two reasons people chose to move to L.A.

, , and for their dreams of fame, that more than likely wouldn’t come true.

Suzie Hopeful may have been the prettiest girl in butt fuck Nebraska, but in LA she was just another pretty face in a crowd of beautiful people.

Sure, she may have talent, but if she didn’t have that thing agencies were looking for, then how well she could sing didn’t matter.

That’s what most people didn’t understand. The only requirement for fame, was the it factor. Did I have that factor? Maybe. My movies did quite well. There weren’t exactly the kind someone would see in a theater—there was too much nudity for mainstream media—but I enjoyed making them.

Mind you, Soda Springs California wasn’t exactly like L.A. It was still full of people who wanted to be famous, but I wasn’t one of them. I came here for one reason, and one reason only. To be no one. The name Kessler didn’t mean shit in California.

I scanned the hardened faces seated around the poker table with my best friend Mitch and I.

Each and every one of these four men thought they were the baddest motherfucker in the room.

And in this little run down piece of shit bar, maybe they were?

They’d clearly seen some shit, or caused some shit.

Mitch and I were the only people seated here that didn’t have a visible scar. Emotional scars however…

Yeah, I didn’t have any of those either. But Mitch’s soul was covered in them.

Mitch ran his finger through his red hair and leaned over to whisper to me, “What do you think?”

I think he needs to get control of his tells, and stop running his fingers through his hair. “I think you should fold.”

His right brow lifted as his silver eyes poured over the other players. I knew what he was going to do before he dropped more chips in the pot.

“I raise 500.”

Goddamnit.

“Mitch,” I whispered in warning.

“Relax Vahn,” he hissed back. “I know what I’m doing.”

No he didn’t. There was a reason he was three grand in the hole while I was up two. My best friend was a lot of things, observant was not one of them. I doubted that Mitch knew our fellow players names, let alone their tells.

For example, Armen puffed on his cigar when he had a bad hand, while Hayk drummed his fingers on the table, and Ruben played with his wedding ring. Edgar’s tell I had yet to figure out.

If Mitch was paying attention he would’ve picked up on the same things I did. What kind of gambler couldn’t read the room?

A gambling addict, that’s who. That was the downside of addiction. You were so caught up in chasing whatever high you were after, that everything else didn’t matter. Right now all Mitch could see were dollar signs from the big win he was convinced was right around the corner.

I grew up around addicts. My uncles, Mason and Chase, had past issues with drugs, and my uncle Logan was addicted to his wife. He couldn’t be in the same room as my aunt Shelby without touching her. My mom called him obsessive, but obsession was just another word for addiction.

That addiction at least I understood. Mostly because I had one of my own. A tempting little redhead named Emma, who just so happened to be Mitch’s baby sister. If he wasn’t so concerned with where his gambling fix would come from, then he might’ve noticed how I looked at her.

Armen eyed Mitch while striking a match on the table. “I think you’re bluffing.”

“Ayo.” Edgar nodded and dropped more chips in the pot with Armen.

All four of them had an accent, which I was fairly certain was Armenian, and based on the meat hook I spotted in the back room dripping blood, I didn’t think they were the friendly type of Armenians.

Mitch rolled his shoulders back and tipped his head. “If you think I’m bluffing, then you won’t have a problem throwing another 500 in the pot.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

What the hell was he doing? I knew Mitch too well.

At best, he had a pair. These guys weren’t the kind of people who would let us leave without paying our debt.

They were dangerous, and I knew something about dangerous people.

I was one of them. It came with my last name. But the way Edgar was staring at us…

There was a look someone had when they didn’t have a problem snuffing out another’s life. This blank stare that was almost void of emotion. I’d seen it on two people in my life. Preston Whitley, who took care of ‘problems’ as my dad put it, and now Edgar.

Meaning if Mitch kept digging himself in a hole, he wouldn’t be walking away with another debt. He wouldn’t be walking away at all. We’d both probably end up on that meat hook in the back.

Not that Mitch was thinking about that. Consequences in his mind, were nothing more than an obstacle he had to veer around, for that big win he was sure was right around the corner.

That didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to stop him.

Someone had to be the voice of reason, and we needed to get out of here before things went too far.

“Mitch…”

His silver eyes snapped my way. “I have a great hand.”

No he didn’t. If he did, then he wouldn’t look like a junkie itching for his next fix.

Sweat dripped down his brow, while his hand twitched, and he had ran his fingers through his red hair so much, that it was standing on end. I wouldn’t be talking him into folding, let alone convincing him to leave. I could always throw my fist in his face and drag his unconscious body out.

“Is there problem?” Edgar’s thick Armenian accent led me to think that English was not his first language. I doubted that it was even his second.

I looked into his cold dead eyes, and said, “No.”

He was a little surprised by my eye contact.

I didn’t know if that was because most people didn’t like looking at him, or because I wasn’t afraid of him.

Edgar was a scary guy, and the scar that cut diagonally across his face only added to that.

He definitely didn’t have a face one would want to put on a magazine.

“Are you in, or do you fold?” Armen pipped in, eager to get on with the game.

Looking over at him, I thought back to something my grandfather told me.

Every hand is a winner and every hand is a loser, it all depends on how you play the game.

The game in this case was getting Mitch and myself out of this bar alive.

And that would only happen if I won enough to pay off his debt.

Don’t get me wrong, money wasn’t a problem for me. But Mitch didn’t know that. To him I was just another college kid trying to make ends meet.

I loved the man like he was a brother, but when people found out you came from money, they treated you differently. And I couldn’t be no one, if the people I was closest to thought I was someone.

So, I gave up my penthouse, shared a shitty apartment with Mitch and his sister, and made porn to pay the bills. That part of my persona was thanks to his sister Emma, who made her money by doing cam shows. Most of which she used to cover her brother’s gambling.

I thought about getting rid of him, but the guy grew on me.

Besides, my career not only allowed me to keep an eye on Emma, but I got to fuck for a living.

My uncle Logan would be proud. My dad not so much, and my mom would just kill me.

Thankfully they would never know. I always wore a mask on camera.

I took a few seconds to size up my opponents.

Hayk and Ruben had folded, leaving Armen and Edgar. Considering Armen was puffing large clouds of smoke in our direction, I was going to say that whatever he had might be enough to beat Mitch’s hand, but not my full house.

Edgar, I wasn’t sure about. He was an empty slate. My psychiatrist grandfather would be fascinated by him. He spent his life studying human behavior, and spent most of mine teaching me how to read body language. Of course that didn’t help much when one was dealing with a psychopath.

“Alright,” I sighed resigned to my fate and tossed my chips in the pot. “I call.”

There was nothing else to do but play the hand I was given.

Although I couldn’t help but think how odd this situation would look to someone walking past. Four Armenian gangsters in suits, sitting at a table in a dive bar with two college kids in jeans and t-shirts, playing poker. It almost sounded like a bad joke.

“Oh yeah,” Mitch declared while laying down his hand, displaying a pair of nines.

Nines? Really? That was the amazing hand he was betting our lives on? Throwing my fist in his face was looking better and better. Thankfully Armen had a pair of jacks, and Edgar three fours. None of which beat my hand.

“Sorry guys,” I grinned at Edgar and shot him a wink while laying down my full house. “Better luck next time.”

Mitch let out a hoot of celebration. The other players on the other hand, were not impressed in the least. Especially Edgar, who narrowed his glare on me and said something in Armenian to Armen.

Reaching out, I pushed the chips in the pot over to me and said, “miayn kortsatsnerek meghadrum en mardkants keghcik’I mej.”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned my way.

That’s right motherfuckers, I understood you. One of the bonuses of my last name was a top tier education. Someone else taught me Armenian though, along with various other criminal underworld languages.

Armen’s glare narrowed. “You speak our language?”

“Yes,” you fucking prick, “and no one calls me a cheat.”

“Ha ha,” Mitch slapped me on the back. “That’s my boy.”

He was too excited about my win to realize the danger we were in.

“Why you hide this?” Edgar asked, as if I had some ulterior motive.

They were the ones who invited an obvious gambling addict to join their game. Mitch was salivating when he saw the table in the back. Probably thought we were easy marks. To be fair, Mitch was.

“I didn’t hide it.” I rolled my navy eyes up to Edgar’s hard stare. “You didn’t ask.”

Assumptions would fuck you over every time.

While Edgar was pissed, Armen was suspicious. “Who taught you this?”

He was right to be suspicious. Armenian wasn’t a language one could find easily. Even Google translate was limited.

I responded to his question with two words. “D’yavol smerti.”

All four of the Armenian’s eyes went wide as audible gasps were sucked back.

“You lie.” Hyak spat out.

“We should shoot them,” Ruben reached into his coat and pulled out a 9mm, “and dump their bodies in the river.”

I tipped my head and asked, “You sure you want to do that?”

Everyone in the underworld knew the name D’yavol smerti. He was their boogeyman. The hitman who was called to take care of someone. He specialized in offing scum like them, and he’d offed a lot of scum. I knew him as Preston Whitley, my father’s problem solver.

Armen shook his head, “You do not know D’yavol smerti.”

“Maybe?” I braced my forearms on the table and leaned in closer to him. “But what if I do?”

The truth was that Preston was more than my father’s friend. He was my future father in-law. My family not only controlled my home town, but they ran a society called The Order Of Ravens And Wolves.

It wasn’t the kind of society movies talked about at colleges and such, but one that you were born into. In other words, we didn’t have a choice. All the boys were raised to run things. Our fathers were called kings, and we were knights, and my father was the King of Kings.

One of the duties we had, was picking our future bride. I chose Preston’s daughter Trina Whitley when I was seven and we both liked the same cartoons. I had absolutely no interest in her now.

I hadn’t even talked to her in five years. But that contract was still there, looming over my head along with the expectations my father had for me. All of which I would avoid for as long as I could.

Unfortunately, my father only gave me four years to do what I wanted. And that four years would be up in five months. Running wasn’t an option, he would find me. We had people everywhere.

Refusing also wasn’t an option. No one refused the King of Kings, not even his own son. Not to mention my grandfather had ways of making people cooperate. All I could do was enjoy my freedom while I had it.

Armen and Edgar exchanged a look but said nothing.

I was tired of this and wanted to get home. Emma’s show was about to start. So, I said something to Armen that I knew would bring the game to a grinding halt. “Should I call him or is your man going to keep waving that gun in my face?”

Not wanting to risk it—which was the smart choice—Armen signalled Ruben to put the gun down. “The game is over, leave.”

That was when Mitch decided to pay attention. “The game isn’t over, we still have money to win.”

“Drop it.” I hissed at him.

“Fuck that. We’re on a roll.”

We were not on a roll, I was on a roll. But based by the look on his face, Mitch wasn’t going to back down. Meaning there was only one thing to do.

My fist cracked off the side of his head, knocking him out of the chair, to land unconscious on the floor. That little one hit trick I could thank my uncle Mason—the former MMA fighter—for.

I stood up, threw Mitch over my shoulder, and looked back at the Armenians. “I trust my winnings will cover his debt?”

Armen waved at the door. “Just get out.”