Don’t steal anything.
My palms sweaty, I lean my neck and gaze into the next room, which is significantly quieter. There must be at least five felt tables set up. Old men that I recognize as dealers are settled behind them, except for one. Men smoke and drink as they occasionally look back into the room. The poker tables draw me in, but I feel another tiny prick of fear as I watch them. There are small heaps of chips on the tables, and I feel a desperate pull to snatch one and add it to my pile of memorabilia: another trophy.
I've no desire for the drinks and food. I want to watch a game.
The players are older than us by a few decades. A man whose skin hangs off his neck looks at me.
“Come inside, sweetheart. Don’t be shy.”
I step into the room, leaving Jackie to search for his brother. Maria joins me, and I sigh with relief. The old man's smile is encouraging. I graze the felt tables and smile at the mounds of chips.
“What are you doing in here?” Maria whispers.
Like me, she feels the need to keep quiet.
“I’m going to watch their games. You can go back if you like.”
“I think I’ll mingle for a bit. See you later.”
I swallow hard when her warmth disappears from my side. The men in the gambling room ignore me as I browse the tables.
“I don’t understand,” a man wearing a three-piece suit booms. “Cesare said there would be five dealers.”
“Hey. Brought this for you.”
Jackie returns with a glass of champagne.
“Thanks.” I take it, trying not to ruin my makeup as I down the bubbly liquid.
I migrate toward the group of men, studying the rows of chips and cards, itching to get my hands on them.
Don’t!
A man in a charcoal suit blows out his cheeks, disappointed. “One of them called in sick.”
“Well, that’s fucking perfect,” says a second, irritated voice. “I invested a lot of money in this thing.”
I can deal.
I'm about to speak up, but something about them seems utterly forbidding. I want to hang in the background and watch.
“We have whales coming in from Wall Street,” he continues. “I can’t tell them we fucked up.”
“Adriana can deal.” Jackie’s loud voice booms out. “I’m Jackie, Frank Rizzuto’s brother. And this is Adriana. She’s an expert poker player.”
No, I’m not.
The group of hardened men glare at the interruption. My heart pounds at the menace dripping from them. As soon as they realize he’s talking about me, their anger fades into amusement.
Their disbelief makes me step forward. “Yeah, I am. I can deal for you. It’s no problem.”
They smile at me. Jerks.
“Sure.” A man in a navy suit rolls his eyes, his tone infuriatingly complacent. “Why don’t you join the women in the other room?”
I slide into an empty dealer seat and grab a deck of cards. I got into Columbia, asshole. Don’t you dare talk down to me.
I give them a small, polite smile. "I can do this."
Even I’m surprised at the confidence pouring from my voice.
Navy Suit crumbles. “Why not?”
“Cesare will be pissed.”
“We’ll watch the girl. If she sucks, we’ll take her out.” The forty-year-old looks at me with his eyebrows raised. He strikes me as a man who goes with the flow. Thin-rimmed spectacles sit on his long nose. “You know how to play Blackjack?”
I smile at him. “Of course.”
“My name is Paulie. Shout at me if you need anything.”
Behind him, Jackie frowns at me, but there’s no time to talk. Men filter into the room as dealers settle into their places. Suddenly, there's a crowd around my table.
My hands tremble as I shuffle cards.
A man in his fifties sits across from me. His admiring gaze makes my face hot. None of them seem perturbed that I'm the only female dealer. The fight over seats at my table suggests otherwise. The game begins, and I deal, entertaining myself by counting cards. The first game ends with a win for the house.
Paulie breathes down my neck as he makes sure I'm not screwing up the game, relaxing as the games progress without incident. The man who smiled at me wins, and he tosses me a chip.
Stunned, I grab it. A tip?
The guys start to loosen up. Cigar smoke furls around the table, choking the air. A crowd from the other room filters in to watch. There are explosions of laughter at other tables, groans, but all of it disappears as I focus on the game.
“Yes!” A man fists the table, sending chips sliding down his stack. “Here you go, honey.”
More chips fly my way. “Thank you, sir.”
The players seem to be from a mixed crowd, ranging from wealthy businessmen to married, middle-class men who look like they're on the lam from their wives. The guys watching the game are different. Dark-haired. Olive-skinned. Italian.
My heart thumps wildly.
Is this what I think it is?
A slight commotion erupts in the other room. Voices lift in greeting. Paulie tenses, his jaw clicking shut. He's gone in a flash.
“Vincent,” he says, greeting a man who just arrived. “There was a slight problem.”
“Who the fuck is she?”
His voice is darker than shadows, and it punctures the happy bubble surrounding my table. A wealthy businessman flinches as the sharp, Brooklyn accent grows louder. They walk across the room. Someone grabs the back of my chair and leans uncomfortably close.
“Who are you?”
I want to tell him to calm down, but I swallow my words the moment I meet his gaze. He wears darkness like his suit, which wraps his lean figure in a perfectly tailored cut. He's the youngest man in the group, but older than me, and though I’ve talked back to plenty of guys his age something tells me not to cross this one.
Unfortunately, I’m still incapable of speech. His eyes hold me hostage as I take in his unnaturally handsome features. His raven hair falls into his gaze, breaking the ferocity burning there, and I have the strangest impulse to push it back. I glance down. Olive skin peeks from his button-up shirt. He looks perfect. God made suits so that men like him could wear them.
“We’re in the middle of a game, sir.”
Someone laughs, but the sound is quickly stifled. Warmth vanishes from the room as I realize I’ve made a mistake.
“I asked you a question,” the man snaps. “Who are you and why are you dealing at my card game?”
My card game. Whoever this man is, he’s the authority. Everyone looks at him as if he’s in charge.
“Vincent, it’s okay,” Paulie says, exasperated. “She’s doing a good job.”
Vincent relaxes as Paulie repeats that the dealer called in sick and that I offered to help. Vincent eye-fucks me as though I’m up to something.
“I’m Adriana.”
He doesn’t react to my voice. “Who brought this girl here?”
“Who cares?” A player at my table shrugs. “I’d rather look at her than those old bastards.”
The tension choking the air diffuses as everyone dissolves into laughter. Even Vincent lightens up. A smile twitches across his stony face. Butterflies in my stomach take flight, even though the smile isn't directed at me.