Page 2 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

I don’t know how Buzzcut picked up on my vibe, but as I turn to slash out at him with my improvised weapon, he catches my wrist and body-slams me into the wall beside the door.

Stars flicker over my vision.

The brutal impact drives all the air from my lungs. I claw it back in pained, ragged breaths, trying to ignore how effortlessly he pins me, how the rough wall scrapes me through my shirt.

He clicks his tongue like I’ve disappointed him and digs the cool muzzle of his gun under my chin.

“ Dámelos ? 2 .” He tugs at the keys I just tried to gouge his eyes out with.

I reluctantly open my hand. He watches me for a second, eyes narrowing as he takes the keys from me. “Pull a move like that again, and they’ll be scraping your brains off the wall.”

“And you’ll be locked up for murder.”

“We don’t live in the same world, mamacita ,”? 3 he says, so matter of fact the hairs on my nape stand up. “You kill someone, even in self-defense, you go to jail. I kill someone, it’s just another Wednesday.”

I almost tell him to get it over with. Soon as this thug realizes I was bluffing about the money, my brains are on the wall anyway. Why wait?

Buzzcut unlocks the door and uses the muzzle of the gun to herd me inside my future crime scene.

“Keep your hands up,” Buzzcut says when I slide them into my armpits for warmth.

“Where could I possibly be concealing a weapon?”

“Keep fucking around, sweetheart. I got a weapon in my pants I’m itching to take out.”

“Should see a doctor about that,” I mutter, quickly tugging my hands free when he digs the muzzle into my shoulder blade.

I go to my knees in front of the safe tucked under the desk, turning the combination lock, then swinging open the door. There are two thick plastic envelopes inside, both filled with cash. As I take them out, I realize there can’t be more than ten grand inside.

My heart clenches so tightly, I pause for the heart attack that’s sure to hit me.

Sweet baby Jesus. I knew it was a slow week, but there’s barely anything in here.

I try to stand, but the muzzle of Buzzcut’s gun presses against the top of my head, keeping me on my knees.

Execution style.

I don’t look as I hold up the two envelopes with a shaking hand.

He snatches them. “The fuck is this?”

“Business has been slow lately.”

“Fuck!” he snaps. “Tell me you didn’t waste my time on five grand?—“

“There’s at least ten in there!”

Buzzcut sighs. “Up.”

I slowly get to my feet, holding up my hands so he doesn’t think I’m ‘pulling another move’.

“Turn around.”

Oh, God. Is this where he gives these dreary walls a splash of color? Or where he takes out his other weapon?

Buzzcut tilts his head. “You owe me a hundred grand, Zoey.”

“Ninety,” I bite back.

Buzzcut lifts the envelopes and taps his tattooed fingers against the plastic. His dark, slashed eyebrow twitches. “Call out fee.”

“I thought it could be more of a down payment?—”

“I’ll take this too.”

My skin prickles with icy panic when he draws the muzzle of the gun down my throat.

Nothing’s changed in his eyes. But his voice is deeper, throatier. And instead of forcing the metal hard against my skin, he keeps a light, teasing pressure. My nipples tighten, because apparently they don’t know what the fuck’s going on, and that suggestive touch is getting them all excited.

But my gut knows what’s up, because it flops over like a fucking pancake.

Then he stops.

Dizzying relief twists into horror when he taps the gun against my pearl necklace.

Mom had little in the way of jewelry because she poured every last dime into the Slice of Heaven, but she wore this necklace to every shift.

My step-father, Franco, gave it to her before he vanished from our lives forever. I’d often see her touching it, like she was thinking of him.

Wearing it feels like keeping up some unspoken tradition. And I toy with it sometimes, just like she did, but it’s Mom I think about…not him.

Definitely not him.

I wrap my fingers around the pearls. “No. Please. It was my mother’s,” I whisper, tears building in my eyes at the thought of handing it over.

He tilts his head, dragging the gun down my stomach. “You tryna negotiate?”

I try to back up when the muzzle skates over my jeans and brushes against my pubic bone. But this office is tiny, and he already has me cornered.

He chuckles, tilting his head the other way. “I’m leaving with a pearl necklace. This one—“ He taps the gun against my jewelry again. “Or this one.” He drops his eyes to his crotch, and then back to my cleavage, using the muzzle of the gun to describe a line just under my necklace.

My mouth goes dry.

Oh, God.

My fingers shake as I hurriedly unclasp the necklace. It’s just an object. A random assortment of metal and pearls. It’s not worth the alternative?—

—is what I keep telling the tears I’m struggling to blink back.

Zoey Dennen doesn’t cry in front of people.

Not now, not ever.

Buzzcut examines the pearls for a moment, and then shoves them into the pocket of his jeans like a handful of change he got at the gas station.

The injustice of it all slams into me like a freight train.

Fucking Ricky.

“This isn’t fair!” I bite out, my hands bunching into fists.

“Nothing’s fair, chica . Like how I have to leave, but I really, really wanna stay.” He gives me a lingering once-over that makes me wrap my arms around my chest. “But I got other appointments to keep.”

I watch him retreat with something approaching relief, but I know I won’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight.

He pauses by the office door. “Get me my money, and don’t forget the golden rule.”

“There’s a golden rule of blackmail ?” I snap, incredulous.

“No cops.”

Damn it. That’s exactly what I was going to do as soon as I’d locked the diner door behind him.

“That’s how sweet culitos ? 4 like yours get sold to the highest bidder.”

“If I sell for more than a hundred, do I get to keep the change?”

He moves so fast, I barely have time to gasp before he’s gripping my jaw. Fingers dig brutally into my flesh as he forces my head back until I’m staring up at him.

“Pretty cunts like you get snapped up real fast. How’d you like to be cuffed in someone’s basement?”

I know when to cut my losses. “Not at all,” I whisper.

“Then get me my money.” His mouth twists into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You’ve got one week.”

“One week ? There’s no way in hell I can—“ I cut off when Buzzcut’s fingers tighten around the envelopes hard enough to make them crumple. “Come on.” I point to the envelopes. “That’s everything we made this week.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Please, just…just give me more time.”

Buzzcut considers this for a long moment as he studies me in lurid detail. I can literally feel his eyes sliding up my legs.

“Two weeks. Two hundred.”

Two hundred grand? Jesus.

There’s no way the diner can generate that kind of cash, not even if I sell every slice of pie in the tri-state area. I could try the bank, but with Mom’s medical bills still hanging over my head, my credit score looks like a fucking golf handicap.

There’s always that casino on the edge of town. Ricky told me about their high-stakes tables. He even showed me how to count cards a few summers back.

But that’s crazy talk.

It’s desperate bullshit like that which probably got Ricky into this shit to begin with.

God, I hope he didn’t do something stupid like that. I’ve heard rumors about the people who run that place. They make this gangbanger look like a friendly neighborhood dog walker.

I’ll figure something out. I have two weeks to find Ricky. Who technically should have at least a hundred grand on him.

Unless he never planned to pay back this guy.

Rage swells, so fast, so hard, it’s impossible to hold down.

Two hundred grand.

The number should terrify me into submission. Instead, it ignites something feral in my chest. This tattooed fuck thinks he can waltz into my diner, steal my mother’s necklace, and then threaten to burn down the only thing I have left?

Ricky might owe him money, but I don’t owe him shit.

“Two weeks or what?” I snarl. “You’ll kill me?”

“Nah.” He lets out a soft chuckle as he tucks the envelopes in the back of his jeans, his gun in the front. “Where’s the fun in that?”

That flip-switch change in his demeanor sends alarm bells to every part of my body, locking it up again.

Leaving me helpless as he steps forward and twists his hand in my hair and wrenches up. Pain shoots through my scalp, followed by a sharp jolt down my neck as he yanks me to the side.

Instead of clawing out his eyes, I grab his wrist and go to my tiptoes, tears brimming in my eyes.

Buzzcut pulls a Zippo out of his pocket and flicks it open. I swear I can hear the hiss of gas as he strikes it.

I scream when he brings the flame up to my face, as heat surges over my cheek. It’s so close the flame’s a blur, so close I can feel my eye dry up.

“S-Stop! Stop!” I don’t even recognize the mangled plea that slips out of my mouth.

He chuckles again, his hand darting to the side.

A bright orange flame flashes in front of my face, followed by the stench of singed hair. I’m about to scream again when he slaps me, dousing the flame and startling me into silence.

He releases me, and when I see the terrifying smile on his face, I nearly pee myself.

“Get me my money, or I’ll burn down this diner. With you inside.”

I stop breathing, waiting for him to crack a smile and tell he’s just joking. Instead, he doubles down.

“After me and my boys have had our fun.”

He lingers at the doorway, like he’s watching me soak in his threat. Taking his time, he slips his gun back behind his jeans. Adjusting it, then his junk, his eyes never leaving mine.

If he’s waiting for me to cry, it ain’t gonna happen.

That well ran dry months ago.

When he steps out of the office, I hurry after him, keeping him in sight. Making sure that he actually leaves .

I expect him to go out the front, the way we came in, but he goes into the kitchen. So I follow him, my heart kicking against my ribs every time he slips out of sight behind a wall or an appliance.

Then I’m staring down the short passage that leads to the back door, watching as he slides back the dead bolt and lets himself out into the alley, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

I should have called the cops, reported the car.

Now I’m on this psycho’s radar, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it.

My hands are still shaking as I slide the deadbolts back into place.

Two hundred grand. Two weeks.

And a psycho who knows where I live and work.

I stumble back to the office, closing and locking the door behind me like it’ll offer some kind of protection. Fumble my cellphone from my apron. Stare at it.

Who could I even call for help, if not the cops?

Franco’s been MIA for years. Mom’s gone. My college friends have scattered to the winds, building their Instagram-perfect lives while I’ve been stuck here trying to keep this diner afloat. And Ricky’s the one who got me into this mess.

Fuck that.

I’ll be damned if I’m letting him off the hook.

I tap on Ricky’s contact, my finger tapping furiously against the desk as I wait for it to ring.

“ If you know who this is, then you know what to do! Peace out! ”

BEEP

Voicemail.

Color me shocked.

“You fucking asshole!” I scream into the phone.

“Some tattooed psycho just held me at gunpoint because you owe him money! Call me back immediately , or I swear to God I’m selling everything you own to cover this shit.

” I pause for effect, but also to breathe.

“Starting with your baseball card collection!”

I slam down the phone and slump down into my chair, eyes locking onto the empty safe. Mom would’ve known what to do. She always did.

But Mom’s not here. It’s just me.

I pull up the Devil’s Luck Casino website on my phone and stare at it.

I’m not my brother. I’m not my mother.

And I sure as hell won’t be anyone’s victim.

The website glows on my phone screen like a portal to hell.

Fuck it.

If all else fails, I can always see what the Devil has to offer.