Page 21 of Bad Blood

Mexican.

“W-why?” Heart thudding, I rise from my seat to find a wall of those muscles-in-tuxes behind me. I glance at each of them in turn, but their blank expressions are like a second uniform. “Is something wrong?”

The hand on my shoulder tightens. A second later, my exit from the table is an embarrassment and a stumble as I’m yanked out onto the gaming floor and flanked, two-deep, while I’m forced to undertake the gambler’s walk of shame.

So much for my gladiatorial contest. The emperor just condemned me, and now the lions are loose.

“Is this how you treat all your patrons?” I shove the hand away, recovering some of my bite, but it fizzles out again when we skirt the main entrance and head straight for the door marked “private”. “Look, if you’re going to throw me out, just throw me out, okay?”

“Can’t do that.” A hand finds my shoulder again.

“This is bullshit! I won that money fair and square!”

But it's like talking to concrete. Golden-skinned concrete, with flat, black eyes that are unnervingly similar to those of the man I saw walking through the casino half an hour ago.

“We can’t throw you out for counting cards,” the tallest admits. “Too bad the state laws aren’t the only laws in this place.”

Too bad for me, you mean.

I’m man-handled into an elevator carriage that’s wall-to-wall mirrors. I keep my eyes fixed to the floor as they pile in too, filling up the small space with their unspoken threats. I don’t want to see my fear reflected back at me.I don’t want to see my failure.

“At least let me have my purse.”

“Can’t do that.”

If he says that to me one more time, I’m shredding his boot with my stiletto heel.

I then watch, incensed, as he opens it up, removes my phone and pockets it.

“You make any calls on that thing, you’re paying the bill!”

“Whatever you say,ma’am.”

The elevator carriage stops at the third floor. I’m led out and marched down a long, hallway toward a pair of double doors. There’s a receptionist’s desk to my left, but the chair is empty.

One of the tuxes raps his knuckles and a deep voice answers.

“Bring her in.”

“Your funeral,puta,” hisses one of the tuxes, opening up and giving me a hard shove inside. “Don’t forget to smile for the camera whenSanta Muerteblows you a kiss.”

“Who the hell is—?”

My question is drowned out by their laughter, and then the doors slam shut behind me.

Silence.

“Welcome.”

It’s a black greeting, but all I see is crimson. It’s all around me, boxing me in—a deep, punishing color that makes the walls look like they’re bleeding out.

The whole effect is so distracting it takes me a minute to focus on the tall, dark man leaning against the front of his desk, with his fingers curled around the lip of the polished glass and his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

The Prince of Darkness himself.

At first glance, it’s a prettylaissez-fairestance considering the reason why he’s dragged me all the way up here. After all, he just caught me scamming fifty-grand out of—what I assume—is his casino.

The thing is, I’ve never relied much on first glances. Look harder, and you find the tiny details that paint the real truth—stuff like the unpleasant tilt of his lips, the rigidity in his broad shoulders, the still manner, and the faint bloodstains on the collar of his white dress shirt… He’s not the first man I’ve met who’s swapped lipstick for carnage.