3. Gabby
Gabby
The guy has been at my table for forty minutes, and he’s fucking hammered.
I’ve dealt with enough of them to recognize the particular drunk that turns mean. It starts with the muttering, then the sighing, then the insults under the breath.
I shoot a look at the server coming toward my table. She changes directions immediately. She knows better. There’s a fine line between buzzed and drunk. We want them buzzed so they spend more, but some people just can’t handle their liquor.
“That’s not possible,” he says for the third time in five minutes. His voice has climbed another notch. The couple at the far end of my table exchanges a look and quietly cashes out.
“Sir, I need you to tone it down.”
“You’re pulling from the bottom.” He jabs a thick finger at the shoe. “I’ve been watching you.”
I take a slow breath through my nose. “I’m not.” I keep my voice level. I’ve spent the past five years working jobs that demand I put up with assholes.
“I just saw you! You’re cheating!”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t.” I point at the black dome in the ceiling above us.
“There are at least four cameras on this table.” I gesture toward the two security guards flanking the floor twenty feet away, as a warning and a reminder.
“There’s a whole team of people whose entire job is watching for exactly what you’re accusing me of. ”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay,” I say pleasantly. “Would you like to place a bet? Or maybe you’ll find better luck at another table.”
“Deal the damn cards.”
I deal the cards. He gets a nineteen and still looks at me like I’ve ruined his day. I slide his chips over, but he doesn’t touch them. Just stares at me.
I glance at the clock on the far wall. I was supposed to be done ten minutes ago.
My feet are screaming inside my heels. I’ve got forty minutes to get across town, pick up Luke from the babysitter, and get him fed and into his bath routine before the whole night falls apart.
Routine matters. Routine is an anchor for kids like Luke.
But the pit boss came to me fifteen minutes ago and let me know my relief was running late. It’s the third time she’s been late this week. I agreed to stay because every five minutes is a little more money in my pocket. A little more money for groceries.
“Again.” He slaps the table.
I deal again. He busts on twenty-three. He snarls and narrows his eyes at me.
“Are you kidding me.” He slaps his palm flat on the felt, and the chips jump. “You did that on purpose.”
I flash a tight smile. “You do know that’s not possible, right?”
He leans forward, and his breath reaches me from three feet away. Whiskey and something sweet and rancid underneath. “Don’t use that voice with me. That little customer-service voice. I know what you’re doing.”
I tilt my head. “Dealing blackjack?”
The younger guy at the table snorts. “What an idiot.”
The drunk man’s face goes red. I roll my eyes. Why encourage the guy? I look toward Joel, one of the security guards. He’s focused on something else.
“One more hand,” I say. “Or I can call a chip runner, and you can take a break, get some water. Or coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee.” He shoves all his remaining chips forward. It’s a stupid bet, and we both know it. “Deal.”
I hesitate, because I know what happens when he loses, and he will lose. He’s not that lucky.
I look at security again. I’m not scared. That’s why I took the job. I’m surrounded by security. This guy might lose his shit, but it won’t last long.
But it does make me nervous. Drunk, violent men trigger memories I’d rather not revisit.
I deal.
He gets sixteen. The dealer—me—is showing a six.
Stay. Dealer’s weak. The math is in your favor if you stay.
He looks at me with suspicion. I can’t tell him what to do, but I wish he would just use some common sense. He waves his hand.
“Hit me.”
Moron.
I turn over a nine.
Twenty-five.
He stares at the cards. The silence lasts about two seconds.
“You bitch.”
I go very still. I’ve been called worse, but something about being on my aching feet, eleven minutes past when I should have been gone, and trying to do right by this miserable man is too much.
“Watch your mouth,” I snap.
“Fuck you! I know what you’re doing. You cheating bitch!”
I’m about to call security when a hand snakes around the man’s throat.
Long fingers with tattoos on the knuckles and the back of the hand. The drunk man goes up onto his toes, his face turning red as he slaps at the arm holding him.
The man holding him is tall. At least six-four.
Dressed entirely in black, which is insane in July in Las Vegas.
Dark hair. And even from here, even with his attention fixed on the drunk man whose face is going from red to purple, I can see his eyes are a startling, pale blue.
Broad shoulders. Long legs. Thick arms straining against the sleeves of his shirt.
He says something. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. His tone is enough to keep me frozen, unable to look away. The man is terrifying.
Two security guards materialize, and the drunk man is escorted away. It happens so smoothly that it barely causes a ripple on the surrounding floor. A few heads turn, and then turn back to their games. People go back to their chips and drinks like they’ve seen this before.
The tall man in black turns toward me.
Only then do I notice how tightly I’m gripping the edge of the table.
“Are you okay?”
Up close, he is—I don’t have a better word for it—severe. Angular jaw, thick dark brows, and the hint of a tattoo peeking from above his collar. There’s a stillness about him that feels like he’s controlling the air.
Standing this close, I feel it pressing against my skin.
He’s watching me with those pale eyes and waiting for my answer. My brain stutters. I need to speak. Words, Gabby. Find the words.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you. You didn’t have to… I had it.”
He shows me nothing. I couldn’t say if he is angry or indifferent. His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes do. He’s pissed, but not at me.
That’s when I realize I’m looking at Nikolai Sokolov. I’ve worked here for three months but never met the man. He’s intimidating. At least he might be if I hadn’t stared evil in the face for a year straight. I know evil. He isn’t it.
“He called you a bitch,” Nikolai says.
“I’ve been called worse.” I immediately wish I hadn’t said that. It was too honest.
Something in his expression goes cold. His jaw tightens.
He really didn’t like that.
“Take a break.” It’s not unkind, but it’s also not a suggestion.
“I’m actually off,” I say. “As of ten minutes ago.”
“Then go home.”
I look at him. He looks at me. He snaps his finger and Vadim, one of the managers, rushes over.
“Where’s the replacement?”
“Late, sir.”
He looks at me again. “Go.”
I’m not going to argue. I can’t afford to lose my job.
“Right,” I say. “Yes. Okay.”
I move around him, finish the chip count, and walk away. I know he’s watching me the whole time. I can feel his gaze between my shoulder blades.
I don’t look back as I make my way to the employee area.
But damn, I want to.
I cannot have a crush on my boss. I cannot have a crush on anyone. Luke is the only man in my life.
And I know what those tattoos mean. It's the same world I ran from, and I will not do that again. There will be no falling for a mafia man, Gabby.
The employee locker room smells like hairspray and cheap perfume. I grab my purse from the narrow metal locker and trade my heels for the flats I keep stuffed in the bottom. The relief is immediate.
I check my phone. Three texts from the babysitter. The last one has a period at the end of it, which is never good.
I move fast through the lower-level corridor with my badge out, swipe through two doors, and head for the parking garage. I take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.
I unlock my 2004 Honda Civic and climb in. It’s hotter than an oven. The AC works when it wants, but it’s mine. I paid for it in cash from my first three paychecks.
I turn the key. Nothing. That happens sometimes. I try again, and with a cough and a sputter, the engine turns over.
“Good girl,” I breathe. “Good girl. Let’s go.”
I back out carefully, navigate the spiral exit ramp, and pull out onto Tropicana. I put the window down to keep from suffocating.
When I get to the sitter’s house, she’s got the door open, and Luke is standing beside her with his dinosaur backpack on.
“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately. “My replacement was late, and—”
“This is the second time this week.”
“I know. I know, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I need you to be on time. I can’t watch him if you’re going to be late all the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
I take my four-year-old's hand and lead him to the car. He looks up at me. Those blue eyes. Matteo’s eyes. His father’s face, softened by something that’s entirely Luke.
I get him buckled into his car seat, fix his shoes while I’m crouched beside the open door, and kiss the top of his head.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask.
“It was okay.”
I smile, because anything else would have been abnormal. I park the car in front of our building. I hate our building. I hate the neighborhood. I really hate our second-floor apartment.
But it’s all I can afford, and I can barely even afford it. I unlock the door, and Luke enters ahead of me, pulling off his backpack. I lock the deadbolt behind us. Both locks. Always both.
The apartment is small, a single bedroom. It’s enough. It has to be.
I get Luke fed. Scrambled eggs and toast because it’s late, and it’s what he’ll eat without negotiation.
Bath, pajamas, teeth. The same nightly ritual. I read him two chapters of the dinosaur book we’re halfway through, and by the time I close it, his eyes are heavy.
I sit on the edge of our shared bed, listening to him breathe.
This is temporary, I tell myself. Things will get better.
I get up carefully, so I don’t wake him. In the kitchen, I pour a glass of water and stand at the counter, thinking about the day.
Nikolai Sokolov’s hand around that man’s throat.
The intensity of his gaze. The low command in his voice. I can still feel the way his attention locked onto me like there was no one else in the room.
I press the cold glass against my cheek.
Why am I so flustered?
He’s my employer. My very big, very dangerous, very tattooed employer, but still.
I set the glass down on the counter and see something dart along the backsplash and disappear behind the toaster.
A cockroach.
Fuck my life.