Page 3 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

ONE WEEK LATER

My cellphone vibrates in my pocket, tearing my attention from the ledger I’ve been working on for God knows how long. My silver-framed glasses feel heavier than usual when I lift them off to rub the bridge of my nose.

TROY

Time for a break.

I tap my pen against my ledger a few times, sigh, and toss it to the table. When I close the ledger, I drag my fingertips down the smooth leather.

I appreciate things that submit to my will, but Troy’s right, I do need a break. There’s a tightness in my temples and behind my eyes, warning of an impending headache.

With Myles and Richmond dealing with mob business one state over, I’m way ahead of schedule. I’m so used to their constant interruptions that I didn’t bother setting a timer to pull me out of my focus.

With the shades drawn and the overhead lights on, I have no idea what time it is. It’s possible I missed a meal. Or two. But that will have to wait.

I slip my pen into the pocket of my white dress shirt which, paired with charcoal gray Tigullio wool trousers, comprise my self-appointed uniform. I prefer spending my time on work instead of choosing outfits the way Myles or Richmond does.

Troy gets it. He’s always in black.

Standing, I run a thumb under my hand-stitched leather suspenders. There’s something about the gentle resistance of leather against skin that centers me. A reminder that even unyielding materials will conform, with the right pressure applied in precisely the right places.

I’ve spent years perfecting that pressure in all aspects of my life.

I slip into my suit jacket and head out the door of my hotel room.

The subtle scent of Tom Ford Oud Wood clings to the fabric. Sandalwood, vanilla, and amber notes that cost more than most people make in a day.

There are things in these pockets, too. Essentials for every occasion.

Gloves. A switch blade. Plastic zip ties, because you never know when you need to subdue someone in a hurry.

Troy, in his black henley, black slacks, and black blazer, leans against the opposite wall with the air of someone who could stand there all day. I don’t know how he stands the drudgery. I’d lose my fucking mind.

“Afternoon,” I greet.

“Evening.” Then he shrugs. “Almost morning, actually.”

“Christ, already?” I shake my head as I turn to lock the door with my keycard.

“Need the books,” Troy appears at my side, putting out his hand to stop the door from closing.

I frown at him, sounding not at all defensive when I say, “I’m still working on them.”

“Like you plan to do all morning?” Troy gives me a hard look.

“I’m ahead of schedule.” Now I definitely sound defensive.

“Exactly.”

We stare at each other, but Troy could win in a blinking contest with a tree.

“Just a few more?—”

“Boss’s orders, Smith.” Troy’s shrug speaks volumes.

Myles treats work life balance like a religion. Or, as he calls it, work play balance.

I don’t have the time or the need to play. Needing downtime is a weakness. Weakness in this business isn’t just frowned upon. It’s an open invitation to ending up in a plastic barrel in some dusty warehouse, what’s left of your bones swimming in acidic organic soup.

“Christ,” I mutter, heading back inside to scoop the ledgers off my table.

I swear Troy looks smug when he takes the stack from me. He falls into line as we head down the hallway, both of us silent until we reach the elevator.

I rub the bridge of my nose again, then glance at the ledgers in his bulky arms, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t actually say?—“

“Oh, you bet he did.” Troy raises his eyebrows, staring straight ahead at the elevator’s steel door, refusing to make eye contact.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Myles isn’t even here, yet somehow he’s still in my way. You’d swear I haven’t cleaned over a billion dollars for him. Without me, the Devil’s Luck casino would never have become the money laundering sweetheart it is today.

Without the Devil’s Luck, I’d still be serving time.

My hand clenches before I can force myself to splay it open again.

Not now.

Memories like those I keep locked up tight, where they can’t bleed into the present. Trouble is, some memories have razor-sharp edges that so easily slice through the barriers I put in place.

Michelle’s face flashes behind my eyes—dark hair spilling across white sheets, her throaty laugh. The way her bruised and bloodied face looked right before I discovered what betrayal truly meant.

I adjust my glasses, forcing the image away. Focus on the present. Focus on the job.

“Can I get them back later this afternoon?” I glance at the ledgers. Troy does not.

“Myles says you have other things to focus on.”

I slide my glasses down my nose so I can rub the skin between my brows. There’s definitely a headache brewing. “My scouts are on it. Or is he just expecting someone to fall into my lap?”

Troy makes a non-committal sound.

“Is he expecting me to trawl the casino floor for candidates? Better keep your eyes peeled, Troy. We’re looking for anyone in a feather boa or a corset. And if you even so much as suspect someone’s wearing latex?—“

“You sound frustrated,” Troy cuts in calmly.

I realize I’m tapping my foot and slide a finger behind my suspender instead.

Finding new Angels for our exclusive sex club isn’t the issue.

It’s the selection process I find so distracting.

Testing the girls’s limits. Assessing their thresholds for pain and pleasure.

Determining whether they can follow instructions with precision, or if they need to be broken of bad habits.

“I’m fine.”

Troy rocks back on his heels, hands clasped in front of him as the elevator glides to a stop. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The doors ping as they open on a plushly carpeted hallway. We’re both silent as we stride out of the elevator, Troy wearing an annoyingly blank face, me faintly scowling. The noise hits us before we’ve even cracked open the access-controlled door to the main casino floor.

It’s Saturday night, and as usual, the Devil’s Luck is overflowing.

Rows of slot machines blast synthetic melodies, their explosive colors transforming the casino into a circus. The air is electric tonight, charged with the collective hopes and fears of hundreds of gamblers.

I scan the crowd, easily spotting the subtle tells that separate the casual players from the desperate ones. The way they fist their chips. How their eyes dart around the room. The tension in their shoulders.

Most people don’t realize how transparent they are.

Ice clinks in crystal tumblers served by waitresses in sleek black dresses. The baize is rough beneath my fingertips as I trail my hand across an empty blackjack table.

“Why the hell am I the only one looking for new Angels, anyway?” I mutter, tugging at the sleeve of my dress shirt so the cuffs jut out a quarter inch. “Surely Myles or Rich can find time in their busy schedules?”

“Because their recruitment attempts nearly ended in an FBI raid.” Troy flicks his gaze to me. “Or am I remembering that wrong?”

I chuckle. Not pleasantly. “Mind like a steel trap.”

Myles and Rich lack finesse. They view what we do at The Den as a simple transaction. I appreciate the artistry involved. The careful escalation of intensity. The delicate balance between fear and desire.

There’s a reason that the Angels I train fetch the highest prices. I’ve spent years perfecting my technique, honing my instincts for who will bend…and who will break.

Troy and I head up the sweeping stairs to the mezzanine level overlooking the roulette and craps tables. Here, intimate nests of poker and blackjack tables are scattered over the thick carpeting. Noise from below washes over the railings, but arrives muted at the baize tables.

We weave our way over the floor, my eyes darting from players to dealers to pit bosses.

The casino staff all have friendly smiles on their faces, the pit bosses more somber and focused.

A strict dress code exists on the upper level, but some suits lack the tailoring and price of others.

Doesn’t matter to me. As long as they don’t think they can come in here in shorts and t-shirts, I’m?—

I pause to observe a woman at the bar. There’s a natural grace to how she holds herself, a latent awareness of being watched. She catches my eye for a moment before looking away, a flush rising to her cheeks.

No.

Too self-aware. Too calculated in her movements.

The best Angels aren’t artists. They’re the canvas Doms paint on. Yielding—submitting—to the stroke of our canes, belts, and whips.

I resume my scan of the room, a familiar tension building at the base of my spine.

I’ve always loved the hunt.

“Again? Jesus!” A man’s eager voice reaches me from a nearby table. On instinct, I turn to see who’s won.

It’s not the guy who shouted—he’s gaping at the woman seated beside him at the blackjack table. She’s wearing a strapless green satin dress, her long brown hair styled in sleek waves.

The dress hugs her figure, but it’s not tight enough to explain her stiff, controlled posture. The tightness of her jaw. How one heel jitters ever so slightly.

So nervous, when everything else about her looks rehearsed to a tee.

What are you hiding?

She accepts the chips the dealer places beside her winnings and, as if feeling my eyes on her, casts a furtive glance in my direction.

I glimpse matte red lips, winged eyeliner, and pearl earrings as her expression freezes.

Those plump lips part, eyes widening before she tears her gaze away from mine.

Then she spins back to the game and places another bet.

I slide my thumb under one suspender, toying with the give and take of the dark leather strap as I watch her play. Judging from the pile of chips already in front of her, she’s in the middle of a winning streak.

“Again! You hiding cards up your sleeves or what?”

Is that excitable man her date, or just an onlooker?

“Some of that luck had better rub off on me,” he says, leaning in toward her until their shoulders are touching.

She sweeps her hair over her shoulder as she cringes away from him, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. The sight makes something primal stir inside me. I’m overwhelmed by the visceral urge to press my thumb against her pulse, to feel her heartbeat flutter, then pound under my touch.

A jolt of electricity runs down my spine and settles low in my abdomen when her hazel eyes lock with mine. They’re as wide and startled as a cornered animal’s.

She quickly looks away, but our connection lingers, my body responding to her discomfort with unexpected intensity. I haven’t even spoken to her, but I can already imagine how she’d respond to my voice.

To my commands.

To my touch.

She’s young. Mid-to-late twenties. And the man beside her isn’t her partner, not if she so obviously loathes his touch.

The woman considers her pile of chips and then pushes them toward the dealer. Me and Troy are standing close enough that I can hear her ask the dealer to cash her out.

Has she lost her mind? Even novices can tell when they’re on a streak. Why would she leave a hot table?

“What the hell you doing, babe?” the annoying guy beside her demands, tugging on his clothes as if he’s worried she hadn’t noticed how expensive his Hugo Boss suit is. “Play another hand.”

“I have to go,” she says, already scooping chips into her purse.

She casts another worried glance over her shoulder, freezing when she realizes I’m still watching her.

I beckon to her dealer to stop the cash out, and head in her direction.

Like the crack of a rifle will send a deer leaping away through the trees, the woman throws a panicked look toward the dealer, then me, and rushes off without waiting for the rest of her chips.

Her clumsy escape nearly has her tumbling over her chair, but she quickly catches her balance on her kitten heels and hurries toward the staircase, all but running.

“The fuck?” Troy grates behind me.

“She was cheating.”

Winning streak aside, no one would run off and leave a massive pile of chips on the table.

“I’ll head her off,” Troy says.

My pulse quickens as I watch her flee, my body responding to the chase before my mind has fully committed to it. I want to see how she’d move under different circumstances. Pinned beneath me. Arching against my restraints. Trembling with need.

With fear .

I grab Troy’s arm. He’s got at least twenty years on me, but the muscles under my fingers are hard as steel.

“I’ve got this,” I say, sharper than I intend. “Go speak to the dealer and get her details from the cashier.”

That’s a high roller table she just ran away from. Our dealers know to make sure who’s playing every hand. And if she came in here with cash, she’d have declared the source of that money—along with her name and other details—to the cashier.

Troy frowns like he wants to argue, but decides better of it. “Hurry. She’s getting away.”

I’ll catch her.

The thought causes a thrill that even my dick likes the sound of, and it doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on.

I can’t wait to get my hands on the woman who thought she could get away with counting cards in my fucking casino.

Maybe it’s anger. Or annoyance that someone thinks they’re clever enough to beat me at my own game. But as she casts one more frantic glance over her shoulder before disappearing over the curve of the stairs, it feels like something sharper, and much deeper than anger.

How long has it been since I last hunted down a pretty woman?

So long, I’ve forgotten how fucking good it feels.

And the chase isn’t even the best part.

It’s how she’ll twist and claw for freedom when she realizes there’s no escape—that’s what has my heart pounding in anticipation.

I follow her through the crowd, gaze locked on her retreating figure.

Look at her, hurrying away like she stands a chance.

She has no idea she’s already been caught.