“And why would I meet with her?”
“To find out why she keeps comin’ back.”
“I assume it’s because she continues to win. Have we spoken to the staff? I want her to lose money, not gain it.”
“What happened to ‘the house has no need to cheat because the house always wins in the end’?”
“The house is clearly failing when it comes to her.”
Jack paused. “I’ll speak to them.”
“Good.”
“I suppose that means you’ll continue to admit her.”
“I haven’t decided.” It was untrue and they both knew it. She had intrigued him . . . and he was not a man easily intrigued.
You’re acting like a fool. Just tell her not to come back.
Not yet. He needed insight into her actions. This was her third night visiting the Bronze House in ten days, and the house’s take on those three evenings had dipped significantly. How long could this go on before her presence ruined his business?
Jack was right. It was past time to find out what she was up to. “Fine, bring her to my office.”
“Finally,” Jack said. “Now maybe you’ll stop making everyone miserable around here.”
“I’m the owner,” he snarled. “Anyone who is unhappy with me may find employment elsewhere—and that goes for my second-in-command, as well.”
Not bothering to smother his laugh, Jack walked away. The sound grated over Clay’s nerves, but instead of lashing out, he kept his gaze trained on the woman below. He’d noticed she liked roulette and mostly bet on red. Funny color, red. Brought to mind hearts and flowers, flesh and blood. He preferred black, like mud and coal. Rot and ruin. Like the stain on his soul.
Had she any idea of his history with her father?
He doubted it. If she had, she’d stay very far from the likes of Clayton Madden.
The crowd soon parted to make way for Jack’s hulking form. She looked up from her chips, a flash of annoyance on her face before she masked it with politeness. Jack said a few words and, without missing a beat, her head swung toward the balcony, eyes locking with Clay’s. He sucked in a breath, the impact of her greenish-brown irises like a blow. A ridiculous reaction, he chided himself. She couldn’t see him, not where he stood in the shadows.
Even still, he took a step back then turned on his heel.
He gave himself a mental shake. He would not be cowed by her. No one, man or woman, had ever gained the upper hand with Clay. A beautiful uptown debutante certainly wouldn’t be the first to succeed.
It was past time to put Florence Greene in her place.
Finally, Florence had gained Mr. Madden’s attention.
She followed Jack, the casino’s manager, deeper into the darkened corridors, anticipation crawling through her veins. She hadn’t come to the Bronze House to win money, though she’d done that quite handily.
No, she’d come here to learn.
Not the games, of course. Those she knew. Nor had she wanted to observe how a casino operated. Rather, she’d wanted to observe how the city’s best casino operated. From one man, the casino’s enigmatic owner, Clayton Madden.
Anyone who’d played a hand of cards or thrown a pair of dice in this town knew his name. Madden owned poolrooms, policy shops, craps games . . . He was the ruler of all gambling activity in town. It was said that everything he touched turned to gold, an empire that neither the police nor Tammany Hall could topple.
The Bronze House, however, had turned Madden into a legend.
Renowned as the most exclusive and fairest of all the casinos, the Bronze House was where the elites went to drink champagne, eat caviar and gamble. All the games were aboveboard, the dealers too well compensated to skim. Madden treated his staff and patrons well—unless they double-crossed him. Those who dared to work against Madden’s interests were dealt with swiftly, irrevocably. In manners so horrific they were merely whispered about. Florence had heard stories about bones broken, houses burned. One enemy had supposedly been weighted down with cement and chains, and then dropped into the East River.
As a woman, she’d known her presence here would attract attention. Had planned for it. Embraced it. Part of her had expected to be tossed out within moments of arriving. Yet, she’d been allowed to stay. More than once.
And he’d watched her.
Somehow, she had sensed him up there, in the dark balcony, staring down at her, despite not knowing what he actually looked like. Not many did, apparently, as he never left his club unless absolutely necessary. While the casino operated, he remained in the shadows and Jack handled the problems on the floor.
Now Madden wished to meet her. Even though this was what she needed, Florence had to admit it terrified her.
Daddy liked to tell all three Greene sisters, Show no fear. Men are afraid of women they cannot intimidate. So she stood a little taller and pressed her shoulders back. She would face him bravely or not at all.
A large wooden door with a single brass plate loomed at the end of the corridor. Embossed on the plate, bold lettering read Do Not Enter. She suppressed a shiver. No fear.
Jack stopped and turned. The smooth, dark skin of his forehead creased slightly as he studied her. “Do you scare easily, Miss Greene?”
“Certainly not.” At least, she was trying to appear that way.
A slow smile spread across Jack’s face. “Yes, indeed. You might be just what we need around here.” Before she could ask what he meant, he threw open the door and swept his arm out in a courtly gesture. “After you.”
Playing along, Florence gave a royal dip of her chin. “Thank you, sir.”
The room was brightly lit, a cheerful fire crackling in the grate. Eastern rugs covered the floors, and dark wainscoting adorned the walls. A large desk sat at one end, two small armchairs opposite. It was a cozy space, one well used.
And it was empty.
She glanced over her shoulder at Jack. “Is he . . . ?”
“He’ll be along shortly, miss. Just wait here.” Jack gave her a brief nod and departed, leaving her alone in Clayton Madden’s office.
His office.
So this was where he oversaw his gambling syndicate. She would have thought it more . . . decadent. After all, he was one of the richest and most powerful men in the city. Yet, this was a simple space, not one designed to show off his considerable wealth. What a fascinating contradiction.
Papers were neatly stacked on his desk. She longed to flip through them, discover what matters awaited his attention. Credit he’d extended to patrons come due? Bills from his champagne and caviar suppliers? Reports on dealers and club operation?
Her mind whirled with possibilities, her heart full of giddy envy. Someday. Someday you’ll have an office just like this.
The door behind her opened and she spun toward it. A large man stood in the doorway, his wide shoulders taking up nearly the width of the entry. He was dressed entirely in black with no hint of color anywhere on him. Not a collar stud or silver button in sight. Dark hair framed his face, the strands a bit longer than the current style, and two scars marred his skin: one through his eyebrow and the other along his chin.
He was not conventionally pretty, like the society swells who slept all day and caroused at night. No, this man was handsome, but in a rough-and-tumble, unforgiving way. He oozed confidence, as if he never failed, never let anyone tell him what to do. A warrior, scarred from years of battle, someone who’d built a kingdom with his two bare hands.