Chapter 2
2
ONE WEEK LATER
COEN
T he elevator doors slide closed, sealing me into the obscenely opulent space. Pleasant instrumental music floats over the speakers. So different from what they play in the casinos in the States. Just like everything in Monaco, the music screams luxury and is meant to help enhance the entire experience.
But even the soothing notes can’t undo the dark mood that has settled over me and locked itself in tight since the moment I woke this morning in the plush bed, in the lavish suite with the glittering view of the Mediterranean.
It only gets worse.
Every second.
Every minute.
Every hour.
Every single fucking morning I climb out of whatever hotel bed I’ve slept in.
Every damn day.
The longer I’m away from New Orleans and the Hawkes, working to make amends and protect them from Satriano…the knife in my heart only drives in deeper.
Twists harder.
Hurts more.
Like the serrated edge is catching on something vital and tugging with each inch it goes in until I’m fully impaled.
I press my hand over the spot as the elevator continues to drop, along with my stomach. And that feeling in my gut doesn’t have anything to do with the tournament I’m about to play or how important it is that I win.
The realization that I’ve been lucky to make it another week without them finding me has been weighing heavily on me since I left Atlantic City. Even putting a vast ocean between us hasn’t cured the need to look over my shoulder constantly.
I won’t be able to hide forever…
The only reason I was even able to sneak away and get out of New Orleans during the wedding reception was because everyone was so preoccupied with the hotel opening and celebrating Cass and Kennedy’s big day.
Otherwise, Dad would’ve had me locked in my condo with Gabe, Saint, and probably even Bishop, armed at my door every fucking minute to ensure: one—that I wouldn’t leave, and two—that Satriano wouldn’t come for me.
Because we all knew it was inevitable.
I did them a favor by leaving, by staying hidden as I try to right my wrongs by calling in every favor and using every connection I’ve made at the various casinos over the years to get into games and pay for their silence to the family about it.
But it’s only a matter of time before my luck runs out and someone who knows they’re looking for me sees me and spills where I am. And once that happens, the plan I have to get this runaway train under control will come to a screeching halt when they drag me back kicking and screaming—and make things worse.
The elevator stops its descent, and the doors glide open.
All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
That same paranoia settles over me again—at the least opportune time.
Just as I’m about to walk into and sit down at a tournament that could be worth millions, exactly what I need to make a dent in my debt to Satriano.
I step out onto the casino floor and release an annoyed sigh. The last time I was in Monte Carlo, it was under much more pleasant circumstances. But I won’t be able to enjoy the amenities or the potential company when I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve run out of time.
As soon as the tournament ends, I have to go.
If I keep moving and am careful about it, maybe I can buy more time. Four weeks haven’t been enough. Not nearly when I must wait for the big games and tournaments to make any kind of difference. When I am trying to prove my usefulness to the man who holds all the cards.
I make my way toward the room where the tournament is taking place, and the casino host sees me coming, his smile brightening. “Good morning, sir.”
“Anton.” I incline my head toward him and let my eyes sweep over the other players already gathering. “Are we prepared to start?”
I never arrive early.
Prefer to be the last, when possible.
Not because I want to make an entrance, but because the longer I stand around, waiting for the other players to show, the greater the chance everyone has to try to size me up. And though I’m familiar with most of the players on the circuit who have enough money to compete at this level, there are always a few outliers—folks I’ve never played against. Especially away from the States.
And that always makes the games so much more interesting.
And dangerous.
Anton smiles and glances over my shoulder into the main casino. “We’re waiting on one more player, but if you’d like to take your seat…”
He motions toward the chair in the center of the table directly across from the dealer, exactly where I always like to be—where I can see everyone and read them but can also gauge at least what the first half of the players might be holding before I place my bets.
I slowly make my way over, casually lowering myself into the chair as the others still milling around take their seats as well.
The guy next to me leans over, almost bumping me with the brim of his cowboy hat, and offers me his hand. “Hey, there. Butch Kavanaugh.”
I stare at him.
American, too.
And too dumb to comprehend I’m not here to make friends.
I look away without taking his hand.
He’s one of the few American players I don’t know and have never faced, which means he’s new blood.
That could be a very good thing or it could be disastrous. Having an untested player in a game like this could throw off the entire balance of the table. But if he’s green, he may also make more mistakes and get out early, which means more money on the felt right away and less competition throughout the day.
Butch shakes his head and huffs, holding up his hands defensively. “Geez, all right then…”
He’s offended by my brush-off, but that’s good.
It means he’s emotional.
And emotional players give it all away.
With a $500,000 buy-in, things will undoubtedly get testy, especially because Ned Fairbanks is playing today. He sits at the far end to my right, back ramrod straight.
Impassive.
For now.
But I know what lies beneath it.
The man’s unstable—shockingly so—and when he loses, you don’t want to be within a ten-foot radius of him, which is why I prefer to avoid any tournaments he’ll be at.
Today is an exception—one I had to make in order to ensure I’m utilizing every opportunity presented to me. Missing a single tournament could make the difference between paying Satriano back quickly or his demanding it in blood from someone else in the family, like Atlas or Wren.
I shudder, picturing how happy she looked the moment he dropped to his knee at the reception and proposed. Not because I am not happy for them—I had a hard time keeping tears at bay. Because I couldn’t handle it if anything bad happened because of me. And while Atlas may have chosen to stand against his demands by refusing to throw that fight, he never would have been in the position to have to if it weren’t for me.
And I’m the only thing standing between them having a happy future with their unborn child and the monster lurking under the crib, waiting to strike.
That same monster haunts my dreams and waking hours, but I can’t dwell on it when I should be concentrating on the upcoming game.
Don’t give them the rope with which to hang you…
Our dealer appears, standing on his side of the table, hands behind his back, waiting to be called to his seat once our final player arrives and settles into the single empty chair on the left end of the table.
Next to me, Butch drums his fingers on the table, the annoying incessant sound already starting to irk everyone, given the dirty looks they toss him. He finally seems to catch on and pulls up his hand. “Sorry, just anxious to get playing.”
You and me both.
Once I’m in the zone, there’ll be no getting me out of it, but these few minutes before the first hand is dealt are always the worst—just like Dad said they were when you were walking into a courtroom that first day of trial.
Right now, staring at a potential jury pool sounds a lot nicer than owing a mobster…
Maybe I should have gone to law school.
Giorgio Nikolaou smirks from my right at Butch’s comment. “I heard you cleaned up in Atlantic City last week.”
My back stiffens at his lightly accented words, but I try to stay casual. Giorgio and I have always been civil, but when the Greek sits at the same table, I know I’ll have strong competition.
The fact that he’s been keeping tabs on me doesn’t sit well. Acid climbs my throat, and I force myself to relax my hands out of the fists they’ve become on my lap.
Even if no one can see them, that doesn’t mean they can’t read the tension building in me with Giorgio’s comment.
“Where’d you hear that?”
His smirk grows, his green eyes sparkling with mischief and something else—maybe the knowledge that he was able to throw me off for a split second, something he’s never done at the table before. “The Hawkes aren’t the only one with connections, you know.”
Believe me, I do.
The Nikolaou family is to Athens what Satriano now is to New Orleans. Which is why I don’t fuck with him or even speak to the man outside these tournaments.
I grunt and nod at him, unwilling to engage in the conversation about my win—or the fact that I’ve been dodging the Hawkes. I would rather no one know where I am, especially not a man who can obviously pull strings and isn’t afraid to use his knowledge to his advantage and my dis advantage.
If he can find me, they can, too.
A vise starts to tighten around my chest, squeezing tightly.
Nothing but complete focus will bring victory.
Never give away anything your opponent can use.
I force air into my lungs. Force every muscle in my body to unwind and relax. Force that nagging feeling in the back of my mind to stay buried until the final cards are dealt.
Panic later.
Play now.
Anton’s eyes suddenly widen toward the door.
Butch crosses his arms over his chest, looking perturbed and ready to tear into our final player. “Finally…”
Hurried steps sweep into the room, but I don’t even bother looking until whoever it is finally settles at the table and the dealer takes his spot.
Anton spreads out his hands. “Welcome, players. I will now remind everyone of the rules of the tournament that were already sent to you…”
He recites the laundry list I’m more than familiar with, given how many of these I’ve played over the years, then walks around and sets our chips in front of each of us based on our buy-ins to secure our seats at this invite-only table.
I follow his hand until he reaches the final player and sets them on the felt—my eyes finally landing on the person we have been waiting for.
My breath catches as those shimmering silvery-gray eyes meet mine from the other end of the table.
Fuck.
One corner of her bright-red lips twitches an acknowledgement, but that’s all I get as whatever Anton prattles on about gets washed away by the whooshing of blood in my ears.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUUUUUUCK.
I was right.
She was sizing me up—scoping out her mark. But it wasn’t because she’s a hooker and she was attempting to get me to take her to bed so she could rob me. That woman knew she’d be sitting at this table with me in Monaco and wanted to memorize any tells or weaknesses I might have.
She’s a player—and from the look she’s giving me, a deadly one.
I am so fucked.
* * *
ALLEGRA
The intense, startled look on his face is enough to make me feel like I’ve won even before the first card has been dealt, but I still fight a deeper smirk that might give me away to my opponents.
I settle into my seat and prepare to play at a table full of rich, arrogant men. Not that it’s any different than ninety-five percent of the other tournaments I’ve participated in. For the most part, this is still very much a man’s game—despite a few very talented women who have managed to break into the poker circuit—which gives me a tremendous upper hand.
It allows me to use all my assets, and I am more than willing to do it if it means winning.
They all watch me carefully.
Ogling me.
Assessing me.
Sizing me up.
Most of them—if not all—wonder what the fuck I’m doing here.
Furrowed brows, tense mouths, and narrowed gazes give them away.
It throws them off their game, puts them on edge, to have someone like me sitting at the felt. A young, beautiful woman with exposed skin is the type of distraction they don’t want. But only my friend from Atlantic City seems to be truly shaken by my arrival.
He does his best to try to hide his reaction. The tensing of his shoulders. The stiffening of his spine. The way he swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his lightly tanned neck. The way he shifts in his chair that seems to have suddenly gotten very uncomfortable for him.
There’s nothing better than seeing your opponent off balance before the game starts. Watching grown men who pride themselves on not having tells and being able to control their reactions squirm from one single look or a half-smile is enough to prove why it was so easy for sirens to ensnare them and bring them to their watery graves.
Always have the upper hand…
Something taught to me at a very young age and a mantra I have always tried to remember over the years. It’s served me well. Gotten me through some very hard times and situations that others might have found overwhelming.
I’ve kept my wits about me.
Held my own even when surrounded by powerful men with sinister intentions.
Today is no different. There may not be a physical threat at the table. But the one in his eyes shouldn’t be ignored.
I was right in my assessment of him in Atlantic City. He is used to getting his way. Used to people following his commands and coming out on top.
He is used to having the upper hand—and I already have it when it comes to him.
Anton moves around the table, introducing each of the players. “Coen Hawke…”
Hearing his name finally has him shaking his head and clearing away the startled trance that seemed to have settled into place the moment he saw me. But his eyes don’t return to their typical warm Caribbean-water coloring. They stay hard and sharp as ice, as if he thinks he can somehow wield it at me from across the felt.
When Anton reaches me, he inclines his head and grins at me. “And finally, Ms. Allegra Knight.”
I offer a sweet smile to all the players, making sure to meet each and every gaze at the table to show them I’m friendly and not appear threatening. Most of them will probably buy it, will think I’m in over my head and that they can stomp all over me.
Good.
Let them underestimate me.
It makes for so much more fun when I wipe the floor with them.
I likely take far too much joy in the prospect, and I’ve certainly celebrated destroying these types of men—both at the tables and elsewhere—but it’s hard not to enjoy it when I understand how men think and what they think of me.
There is nothing as satisfying as seeing an arrogant prick fall from the pedestal he’s placed himself on.
And there will be a lot of tumbles today.
Starting with Coen Hawke.
I settle back and wait as the dealer calls for the blinds and the first cards hit the table.
Quick hands reach out to snatch them up, like the longer they sit on the felt might somehow change what’s printed on the other side. I don’t even look at mine, instead taking the opportunity to watch each of the other players check theirs. Starting across from me, I move around the table, but when I make it to Coen, his eyes are locked on me, not his cards, which remain untouched like my own.
His cool, accusatory gaze narrows on me slightly, but I break it and continue to the other players between us on this side.
Talk to me…
I’ve spent weeks researching each and every one of the players around this table—after using my many charms to get the list of who would be participating in the tournament—but it doesn’t mean there won’t be surprises from them.
Tells I didn’t pick up on in my earlier scouting.
Strategies I may have missed.
I need to keep my head cool, stay focused on the game, and avoid looking at Coen Hawke and the way those once-warm eyes have returned to icy shards being thrown at me like daggers.
He’s figured it out now…knows exactly what I was up to that night, and he’s prepared to make me pay for it.
Good luck with that.
I wink at him.
Coen scowls and finally checks his cards, knowing I’m still watching.
But all the time I surveilled him in that game in Atlantic City, not once did he do anything that I would consider a tell. He never gave any indication of what cards his hand might hold—even if he’s more than willing to show me how he feels about me .
Not a twitch of a muscle.
Not a twist of a lip.
Not a shift of weight.
Not a tightening of a hand.
Absolutely nothing.
He’s a true player, one in complete control of his emotions—at least sitting at the table. Sitting at that bar, that’s a different story. And I’ve already seen the crack I made in his smooth facade.
It will only be so long before he breaks.
A round of bets goes around the table until it reaches me.
I finally look at my cards—a pair of kings. Hearts and clubs.
Not a bad start.
Hopefully, it bodes well for the upcoming game.
I need the cards to love me today.
After tossing in my chips, I wait as the dealer pulls the flop, offering a sweet smile to anyone glancing my way. Appearing as young and na?ve as I can.
They all believe I’m some dumb bimbo who only got into this game because of my breasts and my looks. Let them believe it. The only one here who might have an inkling is Coen Hawke.
And only because he caught me.
All the others were oblivious to my time spent watching and analyzing them over the past several weeks leading into this tourney—which means they aren’t as observant as Mr. Hawke.
I have to give him that, at least.
He saw me watching that table in AC.
He knew I was up to no good.
And he was right.
I hadn’t anticipated him seeking me out at the bar after, but once it happened, there wasn’t any reason not to milk it and use it to further my advantage over him.
It clearly worked if his reaction today is any indication.
We make it through five hands—two to me, one to Coen, and one to Giorgio—before I finally catch a tell from the man sitting to Mr. Hawke’s left.
Butch, a brash Texan who loves to eat big steaks and talk to anyone and everyone who will listen. I didn’t dare get close to him at the tournaments when I watched him, too afraid I would catch his eye and I wouldn’t be able to get away without hours of conversation. But I got close enough to witness that when he rubs his forefinger and thumb together under the table where he doesn’t think anyone can see it, it means he’s already counting his money.
He has an incredible hand.
I survey everyone else around the table, and Coen’s gaze surreptitiously darts down to his left. His jaw tenses—the closest thing I’ve seen to a tell from him. But he isn’t looking at his own cards. He caught what his neighbor is doing just as easily as I did.
Coen tosses in his bet and waits for Butch to scan the table, as if he’s assessing what he wants to do when both Coen and I know he’s going to raise with what he’s holding.
Butch raises.
The men between us fold.
I call.
The only ones left standing on the hand are Coen, Butch, and me.
Coen casually lays down his cards—four kings, thanks to the help of the community cards.
Smiling at him, I incline my head. “Nice hand.”
It’s the first thing I’ve said to him since we sat at the table—the first thing any of us have said, save for Butch, who seems not to notice that no one is responding to his comments and questions.
No one is here to make friends or chit-chat except him.
To play at this level, we’ve all developed our own strategies, and no one’s is to get friendly with the competition.
What happened between Coen and me at the bar in Atlantic City crossed a line he never would have if he had known who I was and why I was there, and he’s fuming over it.
He gives me a little half-grin, victory dancing across his icy blue gaze.
Butch grunts and tosses his cards in—full house, queens and jacks.
That might have been a winning hand in any other round.
But now, it’s just Coen and me staring each other down across the felt.
I drag my red-polished nail across the top of my cards, lay them down, and watch the color drain from his face. “A nice hand…but it doesn’t beat a royal flush.”
Those little hearts all lined up in a row…crushing the hand he was so sure had won .
“Shit…” Coen mutters it loud enough for me to hear, even on this end of the table.
I’ve broken him.
The stoic man who played with ice in his veins suddenly becomes an iceberg bobbing around, lost in the ocean current, waiting to slam into something to knock it back onto course.
He would never react like that.
Never has when I watched him.
He’s off balance.
The dealer takes the cards and shuffles as Coen holds my gaze across the table. Tension builds the longer we stare each other down until the hair on my arms stands on end. Energy crackles in the air, and I fight the urge to shiver against the coldness radiating off him.
Butch glances between the two of us, brows rising. “You two know each other?”
I swallow through my suddenly dry throat and shake my head, giving the Texan a soft smile to try to dispel any potential issues that the hatred emanating from Coen toward me might stir up. “No.”
The last thing we want is anyone thinking we’re together, somehow working the table in tandem. That’s the kind of thing that gets you kicked out of tournaments and blacklisted.
Coen crosses his arms over his chest, jaw tense. He knows what he needs to do, needs to say. He can’t admit we’ve met before, or under what circumstances. “Nope…”
And in reality, we don’t.
A short conversation at a hotel bar accusing someone of being a prostitute is hardly knowing one another.
But something tells me that when the final cards are dealt in this tournament, when it’s finally over, that is going to change.