Page 98 of A Game of Deception

A small, humorless smile touched my lips. Of course she wouldn't just sit here. “Okay,” I breathed out, the argument dying before it began. “Deal.”

I leaned in and kissed her, hard and fast, trying to pour everything I couldn't say—be safe, I love you, don't do anything stupid—into it. When I pulled back, her eyes were wide, her lips slightly parted.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“Always am.”

It was the biggest lie I’d ever told, and we both knew it.

I left the keys with her and jogged the remaining block to El Santuario. Ben was pacing nervously by a metal door at the rear of the building, his face pale in the harsh afternoon sun.

“Thank God,” he breathed when he saw me. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I said I would.” I clasped his shoulder. “Tell me everything you know about this place.”

Ben swallowed hard. “It’s called El Santuario, or The Sanctuary. High-stakes gambling, mostly. Cash only. Diego said the buy-in starts at ten grand.”

“Who runs it?”

“Some guy named Torres. Vicente Torres. Diego said he’s connected, you know? Like, South American mob connected.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

“You don’t have to come in with me,” I told him. “In fact, it’s probably better if you wait out here.”

Ben shook his head. “No way. Diego’s an asshole, but he’s my teammate. I’m coming.”

I studied him—this twenty-two year old kid, willing to walk into danger for a guy who probably treated him like dirt. His loyalty was admirable, if misplaced.

“Fine. But you follow my lead. Don’t speak unless I tell you to. Understand?”

He nodded, and I pulled open the heavy metal door. It opened into a dimly lit hallway that smelled of cigarettes and bleach. A bulky man in a black suit stepped forward, hand moving instinctively to what I assumed was a concealed weapon.

“Private establishment,” he said flatly. “Members only.”

I straightened to my full height, meeting his gaze directly. “I’m Xander McCrae. I’m here to see Vicente Torres.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes, but his expression remained impassive. “Regarding?”

“A business proposition. One that solves his Diego Mano problem.”

The guard studied me for a moment, then touched his earpiece, murmuring something I couldn’t catch. After a brief pause, he nodded.

“Follow me. Your friend stays here.”

“He comes with me,” I said firmly.

The guard hesitated, then shrugged. “Your funeral.”

He led us down the hallway and through another door that opened into an upscale gambling den. Rows of tables where well-dressed men and women played poker, blackjack, and other games I didn’t recognize. A polished bar stretched along one wall, and private booths lined another.

Our escort guided us past the main floor toward a hallway in the back. I could feel Ben’s nervous energy beside me, his breathing shallow and quick. I kept my pace measured, my expression neutral. Whatever was waiting for us, showing fear wouldn’t help.

The hallway led to a door marked simply “Office.” The guard knocked twice before opening it.

The room beyond was surprisingly tasteful—more executive suite than mob boss lair. Leather furniture, dark wood bookshelves, and abstract art on the walls. The man behind the large desk stood as we entered, buttoning his tailored suit jacket.

The man who met us was shorter than I expected, maybe five-nine, with salt-and-pepper hair and the build of someone who still made time for the gym. He was handsome in a weathered way, with laugh lines around his eyes. This was Vicente Torres, and the moment I walked into his office, his entire demeanor changed.