Chapter 1 #2
One look in his eyes and I know that this isn’t a suggestion or a request. It’s a warning.
More often than not, my mouth gets me into trouble, and Mickey would often laugh it off or shut me down with a dismissive comment, like “Don’t mind her, she reads too much,” but he’s never hurt me, not physically anyway.
Stunned, I clear my throat, blinking back the outrage coursing through my veins. “Yes, Mickey,” I respond, channeling my mother, the patron saint of obedient wives. “I understand.”
His grip loosens and he smiles, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
The moment his dry cracked lips touched my skin I have to repress the resulting shudder.
He has made himself clear and now it was my turn to do the same.
I grin and lean closer, our position at the bar shielding us from prying eyes just enough to interpret our closeness as an innocent flirtation.
My smile dies as I slide my hand up his inner thigh.
His eyes light in excitement and his lips curl in a devious smirk.
His body relaxes and he eagerly shifts closer.
In one quick move, I reach for his crotch grabbing a hold of his balls in a tight grip.
He goes rigid from head to toe, but he doesn’t move.
“As long as you understand,” I whisper, “if you ever put your hands on me again. I will rip these from your body and wear them as earrings.” I lean back to meet his shock filled eyes, batting my eye lashes demurely. “Cappiche?”
He gives me a curt nod, and I tighten my grip for good measure before releasing him. He lets out a hard exhale and adjusts himself discreetly.
The warning signs are becoming more apparent the closer we get to the wedding, and my doubts are becoming difficult to ignore.
The knot in my stomach has grown to the point that I can’t eat and I’ve been having trouble sleeping.
The pressure from my family and the anticipation of our impending nuptials proves to be too much, which is why I suggested we elope in the first place.
After a late lunch, I head back to the room while Mickey goes to blow off some steam at the poker tables.
I was grateful for the alone time and took full advantage of the quiet and luxury accommodations.
The hotel has gone all out, providing us with not only a luxury suite on the tenth floor with a view of the pool but they also provided a gift basket filled with champagne, gourmet snacks, fruit, and scented bath oils.
My afternoon is spent eating chocolate covered peanuts, soaking in a rose-scented bubble bath with a waterlogged copy of Wuthering Heights.
When the sun sets, the city comes to life in bright flashing neon. The streets are clogged with people just out for a good time or ready to take their chances at the tables.
Mickey never makes an appearance, and we have reservations for the dinner show at nine. My patience is depleted by the time I make my way down to the casino at eight-thirty.
A sweet-faced blonde greets me at the front desk when I approach. “Good evening, Mrs. Giordano.”
I hold up my naked left hand. “Not Mrs. anything yet.”
Her smile never falters; she’s so chipper I start to second-guess if she is even human. The whole scene feels a little like Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
“Of course, Miss Castellano. How may I help you this evening?”
“Well, I was wondering if you might have seen Mr. Giordano?”
“Yes, of course, ma’am. Mr. Giordano is in the high roller room at the back of the casino.
She flattens a map on the counter and continues, “Just go past the slot machines, turn right at the blackjack tables, and follow the tiled path toward the cashier cage.” Her blue pen charted the route and ended in a wide circle indicating my destination.
“If you like I can have someone escort you,” she says, gesturing for a bellhop.
“That won’t be necessary. I think I can manage on my own,” I tell her, slowly backing away from the counter.
“Have a wonderful evening,” she repeats, turning to address the next customer with the same cheery disposition. Taking a deep breath, I smooth the full skirt of my ice blue silk dress and head off in search of my future husband.
The casino floor is a cacophony of noise.
Buzzers and bells sound off from every direction.
Dealers call out for final bets, and patrons clinging to half empty glasses, laugh and cheer with excitement.
There is an interesting mix of people. I notice a tall older man in a ten-gallon hat seated beside a younger gentleman in a three-piece suit.
They grin at each other when the dealer busts and toss back their whiskeys.
Women, dressed to the nines, mill about, delicately sipping martinis and blowing on dice for old men on a winning streak.
Las Vegas sure is an interesting place, that’s for sure.
The crowd thins as I approach the doors to the high roller room. I could feel the eyes of the crowd watching as I address a security guard dressed in an emerald-green jacket. He steps forward, holding the door for me to enter. “Good evening, Mrs. Giordano.”
I give him a tight smile and breeze through muttering, “Not yet,” under my breath.
Inside, the room is much more dignified than the chaos outside.
Crystal chandeliers light the space from above while lush emerald-green carpets lay beneath my feet.
The crowd is much more reserved. No catcalling or loud bells; most people are stoic, remaining silent as the dealer confiscates chips worth more than my parents’ house.
A waiter dressed in a white tailcoat appears out of nowhere with an empty tray. “Can I get you anything, madam?”
“No,” I reply with an added shake of my head. “But could you tell me where I could find Michael Giordano?”
“Of course, right this way.” The waiter turns on his heel and moves deeper into the room, back straight and tray perfectly balanced. He’s quick, expertly moving through the crowd at a pace that has me skipping to catch up.
I feel like Alice exploring Wonderland, eager for the adventure that awaits.
Unlike Alice, each door leads to yet another dark and smokey room with a group of men, one of which I would be spending the rest of my life with.
No one even looks up to acknowledge my presence let alone greets me, their attentions solely on the cards in their hands.
A few ladies dressed similarly to me are seated along the edges of the room, sitting quietly while their men play.
Sitting quietly isn’t exactly my style. I march toward Mickey and place a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t so much as flinch. Clearing my throat, I try again. Nothing. I lean down, whispering in his ear. “Mickey.”
“I’m in the middle of something, Pris,” he grumbles.
“We have reservations at nine,” I remind him, earning me a disapproving look from the man seated to Mickey’s left.
“Relax, we have plenty of time. Sit, have a drink.”
I survey the table and its occupants. Clearly this game has been going on for quite some time and not in Mickey’s favor. The gentleman with the scowl has a few rows of neatly stacked chips lined up in front of him. The others do as well with the exception of Mickey who is down to his last two.
The gentleman directly across from him, partially hidden in the dim light of the corner, seems to be this evening’s big winner based on the mountain of chips before him.
I can’t make out his face, just a pair of strong hands, with long thick fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and a gold pinky ring with an ornate letter R outlined in emeralds and diamonds.
Leaning toward Mickey’s ear, I try a second time to get his attention. “Mickey, I-”
“Jesus, Pris. Can’t you see I’m in a game here? Sit your ass down and we’ll go when I’m ready.”
I blink. The audacity of this man, I swear. With a heavy sigh, I stand up straight and address him loud enough for the room to hear. “Well, when you lose what little money you have left in the next hand, I’ll be at the bar seeing what kind of trouble I can get into.”
A few of the players chuckle, casting amused glances in Mickey’s direction who doesn’t share the sentiment.
Mickey reaches for my wrist, his lips tight. “What did I say about embarrassing me?” he hisses.
I rip my arm from his grip and give it right back to him. “What did I say about putting your hands on me?”
He growls and turns back to the cards in his hand. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he mutters.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say coyly, giving an older gentleman to his right a flirtatious finger wave. “I’m worth a whole lot of trouble.”
“Enough,” Mickey barks. “Five minutes. Give me five goddamn minutes, okay?”
“Fine,” I snap, reaching for his arm and sliding the thick gold Rolex off his wrist. “Five minutes and go.” I take a seat in the empty chair behind him, back straight, ankles crossed, my eyes fixed on the gold face, watching the second hand tick down.
The game resumes and with two minutes and forty-three seconds left on the clock, it’s Mickey’s turn to bet.
“Call,” he says, dropping his last two chips into the pile at the center of the table.
Two more men follow suit, but when the bet comes to the mystery man hiding in the darkness, he raises the bet another two thousand.
Mickey is out of chips and out of options.
One player folds, another calls and when it’s Mickey’s turn, he addresses the mystery man directly.
“Can I get a credit? You know I’m good for it. ”
Mr. Mysterious chuckles. “You mean your daddy’s good for it.”
Mickey’s charming smile dims as the rest of the players join in on the mockery. “Come on, I’ll give you whatever you want. How about my watch? It’s worth at least three grand.”