Page 5 of Ace of Hearts

Rose

May

Macau, China

My mom keeps messaging me, begging me to come home. She must think I’m spending my time holed up in casinos, hemorrhaging money I haven’t got—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong.

That’s what addiction does to you. Even when you know you’ve had enough, even when your bank account’s at zero, you still find a way to keep on playing.

Because you tell yourself the next one’s going to be “the big one.” And sometimes it is.

One time in three hundred. Those odds are dangerous enough, but for me it’s even worse, because unlike the average player, I don’t just assume I’m going to win again sooner or later.

I know it. That makes me arrogant enough to bet crazy amounts of money. Hence my debts.

My parents could pay them off for me, but I have no desire to be dependent on them. I tell myself I’ll get by on my own, just like I always have.

“I’ll take those,” I decide, pointing to a pair of gold shoes.

The English-speaking shop assistant beckons one of her colleagues to see to my purchase.

I shouldn’t spend money like this, especially not on such pointless things.

I travel so much, I have to be able to pack my whole life into a suitcase.

The only things I always make room for are my brushes and my tubes of paint.

That’s the one passion I can’t leave behind.

Beyond that, I need to think carefully before I buy anything, though I have been a bit careless recently. But what the hell? These shoes are divine. And I’m helping boost the country’s economy by buying them, aren’t I?

I pay and leave, an enormous bag in hand. I light a cigarette with my palladium lighter—an eighteenth birthday present from my father—and am just setting off toward the Café de Paris Monte-Carlo when something catches my eye.

Oh wow .

I’m not dreaming. It’s a sublime 900-HP Ford Mustang Lithium, parked on the street. A little gem. I stop to get a good look. My eyes run along the bodywork ... and come to rest on a man leaning against the back door, hands in his pockets. An impassive face.

Intense, stormy eyes.

“Should I be calling the police right now?” I ask.

To his credit, the poker player from last night doesn’t even blink. He tilts his head slightly without taking his eyes off mine. Despite what I said to him yesterday, he is in fact hard to read. He has absolute control over his facial expressions, which annoys me.

It’s a lot harder to manipulate this kind of person.

“You tell me,” he says. “Do you need to be saved ... Rose?”

I narrow my eyes. How does he know my name? And how did he find me so fast? Does he want his money back? Too late. It’s almost all gone.

“The shoes, I presume?” He looks at my bag.

I give him a fake-frivolous smile. “I keep my promises.”

“One of the most important qualities I look for in a person.”

I raise an eyebrow. What exactly is he after? I ask whether this meeting is a coincidence, though I’m sure it isn’t. He doesn’t answer straightaway. His eyes wander to the cigarette I’m still smoking; then his gaze meets mine again, as if he’d gotten momentarily distracted.

“You left in a hurry last night.”

“I believe it’s called getting ‘chucked out,’” I say.

He smiles a little at that. Just for half a second. There’s a tap on the window on the driver’s side, and only then do I see he isn’t alone. The silhouette of a man is just visible through the tinted window. The figure doesn’t move, but I know he’s heard everything.

“I can’t stick around long, I’m afraid,” the poker player says. “Ms. Alfieri, I’m here to make you an offer. Are you looking for work by any chance?”

Am I? I wonder. I certainly need money. But I don’t answer at first. I give him a skeptical look. Far too many rich, powerful men have asked me that question shortly before attempting to take my clothes off. I won’t fall for that again.

“Why? Are you hiring?”

“Not really, but you’re what I’d call an exception. I like you.”

Bingo . The determination with which he says it makes me shiver. After yesterday, I wouldn’t have thought him the type. My disappointment is real, but fleeting. I smile coldly, ready to turn and walk away.

“Sorry, but I’m no prostitute.” I know we’re in Sin City, where the economy feeds off gambling and sex, but still. This sort of thing gets tedious.

He takes one hand out of his pockets and waves a finger in disagreement. “I think you’ve misunderstood me. I don’t like you in that way . It’s more your ... let’s call it your ‘gifts’ that I’m attracted to.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I exhale a long plume of smoke, still on my guard. “Is this some kind of fetish, like people who have a thing about feet?” I ask. “I won’t judge you.”

He smiles again in spite of himself. Gorgeous. If I were just a little weaker, I’d already be sitting on his knee in the back of his beautiful car. But I stay faithful to Carlotta.

“I’m sure you have lovely feet, but no. I have other vices.”

“Such as?”

A pause. I hold his gaze, daring him to be honest. He answers calmly, with no sign of shame. “Money and power.”

I nearly laugh at this reply. Perhaps the two of us are cast in the same mold after all. “Isn’t that true of everyone?”

His smile spreads over his pale, implacable face, as though my reply delights him.

He detaches himself from the car and stands up straight as I get a good look at him.

He’s wearing a fine sweater tucked into high-waisted cream trousers.

He looks classy and elegant. His smile makes him as dangerous as a snake charmer, and that smile has surely broken plenty of hearts.

But it’s his way of looking at ... Oh God!

The way he looks at you ... Like Satan himself.

Obviously, this just makes him even more attractive to me.

“Here,” he says. He holds out a card on which I can see the name Levi Ivanovich . “I haven’t got time to explain it all now, but would you have a drink with me this evening? On me, of course.”

I turn the card over and over, not saying anything.

He’s already taken the time to write something on the back.

I recognize the address of the Ritz-Carlton luxury hotel.

If he can afford a suite somewhere like that, it’s in my best interest to listen to him.

Or maybe he just wants to crash the hotel’s bar?

He can’t be much older than me. Midtwenties, I’d say. I look at the card again, hoping to find answers. The words are all in Russian, except for one name in English: Rasputin .

A club, perhaps.

“I’ll wait for you in the bar at seven,” Levi says.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t think I’ll come. You appear out of nowhere, probably because you’ve been following me all morning, just to tell me you like me and you want to give me a job. Call me paranoid, but that’s how women like me end up dead in an alley somewhere.”

He nods as though he’s thinking about what I’ve said and walks around the car to the rear right-hand door. His chauffeur starts the engine, and the sound is sweet music to my ears.

“What if I told you there’s a lot of money to be earned?”

Unimpressed, I drop my cigarette and then crush it under my heel as I cross my arms. How did he guess that money would make me take the bait? Anybody looking at me in these clothes would think I was loaded.

“ Quanto? ” I say in Italian. How much?

It’s true what they say about money being a universal language. I bet he doesn’t speak a word of my native tongue, but he raises an eyebrow and replies anyway. “Enough to tempt you.”

He gets into the car and slams the door. What a pretentious asshole . I can tell he’s one of those men not used to hearing the word no . They’re the worst kind; I despise them.

Suddenly, the back window opens, and I see him leaning across toward me, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he nods toward my feet.

“I look forward to seeing which ones you chose.”

The Ritz-Carlton is a beautiful hotel; I’ll admit that much. My hotel doesn’t even come close, though it’s not too shabby either. Several people, both men and women, turn to look as I walk into the lobby.

Probably because of my clothes.

I’m wearing black trousers and a strapless satin top with long balloon sleeves and a very low V-shaped neckline. My short hair just touches my ears, which have small gold rings running all along the cartilage.

I’m wearing the high-heeled gold stilettos I bought earlier, their ankle straps gleaming with rhinestones.

I feel powerful and sexy. Ready to confront this Levi Ivanovich, whom I see immediately—how could I not?

He’s comfortably settled in one of the Bordeaux-red armchairs, whiskey in hand.

I’m late, but he’s still there, waiting patiently.

I spent the whole day sure I wouldn’t go, but curiosity got the better of me at the last moment. If he really doesn’t like me “in that way,” then I have to know what he does want from me—and how much money we’re talking about, of course.

My aunt says I’m obsessed with money. I just call it being practical.

I walk over without hurrying and sit down in the armchair opposite him, crossing my legs. He seems slightly surprised to see me, as though he thought I wouldn’t come.

We look at each other in silence, both of us leaning back in our chairs. After a few seconds, he empties his glass and puts it down on the table between us.

“What’s your poison?”

“If only I had just one,” I try to joke.

“You’ll have to narrow it down for me.”

A waiter appears at my elbow at that moment. Levi doesn’t take his eyes from mine. He looks at me seriously.

“Where I come from, we never refuse an offer of alcohol. We have a saying: ‘Only spies don’t drink.’ So ... brandy? Champagne?”

I’m more than happy to play along. I don’t say so, but I never turn down a drink either. Russians aren’t the only ones who like to raise a glass.

“I prefer red wine.”

“A bottle of Ao Yun, sir?” the waiter suggests.