Page 30 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

I’ve killed men for less than what Rich is suggesting.

“Did you see how she fought back?” I’m surprised Rich isn’t fucking drooling.

“I saw.” Troy seems unaffected by his enthusiasm. Then again, he usually is. Desperate for a more receptive audience, Rich makes the mistake of turning to me.

“That bit where she started grinding against your leg?” He fists the air, whooping. “Pure fucking gold. That video’s gonna double our subscription rates, easy.”

I listen to him, trying to emulate Troy’s clinical detachment. But I barely paused in that dressing room long enough to grab a warm, damp towel from the tray before leaving Zoey to clean herself up, and I can smell the blood on my skin.

Not just blood.

The more I wipe my face, the darker the stains on the towel.

And that just reminds me of the way Zoey’s face contorted before she spat at me. The vicious hatred in her eyes.

A hatred that shifted into something desperate and fervent when she came.

Christ, the sounds she made.

The self-loathing in her eyes when she had no choice but to rub up against my leg for release.

The disgust when she swallowed my cum from my finger.

“Delete it.” My voice sounds strange even to my own ears.

Hollow. Distant.

Rich spins in his chair, his excitement morphing into confusion. “What?”

The Labyrinth’s control room looks nothing like the one I left earlier tonight.

That security room was all business, camera feeds monitored by professionals.

It’s obvious this room was built for voyeurs.

Rows of monitors on one concave wall, a keyboard and mouse on the desk beneath it.

A large projector lights up the canvas along the other wall.

Sofas, a dry bar, coffee tables, barely illuminated by discrete ambient lighting.

A single chair, bolted to the floor, plays out on the projection screen. So still it could have been a photograph.

“I said delete it.”

“But this is exactly what we?—”

I step closer, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “All of it.”

“Even the bit with the Colombians?”

I hesitate. “No. I want to review that footage.” I lick my lips, tasting the faintest trace of blood on my lips.

Christ, I need another shower.

Rich sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Fuck it, not this again.” He glares at me, sniffing hard. “ You fucking vetted them, Smith.”

I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of his chair, caging him in. “I didn’t authorize this scene. You put my property at risk.”

“ Your property?” Rich’s eyebrows shoot up. “Last I fucking saw, that collar said property of Balmont Boys, not property of Smith.”

His words make something dark and violent stir in my chest. I can still taste Zoey’s defiance on my tongue. Still feel the tremor in her thighs when she finally yielded.

And who made that happen?

Me.

That collar around her pretty neck is inaccurate.

And temporary.

But there’s no use fighting Richmond. He’s under Balmont’s protection, as long as he does whatever Myles says.

We both have our separate agencies. The casino is mine.

The clients, his. But I fought tooth and nail to make sure I had a hand in approving new clients, so our Angels weren’t in danger of being slashed up by some pervert with a snuff fetish.

I raise a hand, curling it into a fist when I see my fingers are trembling.

“You upload any of Zoey’s videos, I’ll cut your dick off while you sleep,” I say, straightening up.

There’s a long, drawn out silence that feels like a physical presence shouldering its way into the room. Troy lets out a soft grunt, shifting his weight over by the door. I glance at him, get nothing but stony indifference, and turn my gaze back to Rich.

There’s a gleam of something sinister in his eyes. He’s enjoying this, and I don’t fucking know why.

“Want to tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

Rich rolls his head to the side, a finger curling against his mouth. I’m not sure if it’s his scar, or an intentional pull of his mouth, that gives him such a deep smirk.

“Genie’s already out of the box, mate.” He spreads his hands, fingers splayed. “All those new clients I sent your way? They signed up because of her.”

It takes me too long to understand what he’s saying. Exhaustion, possibly. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in days.

When it hits me, I rock back on my heels, eyes wide. “You uploaded Howler’s video?” I can barely talk through my clenched jaw.

Rich’s brow furrows. “Jesus, Smith. What’s gotten into you?” He leans back in his chair, legs out long as he digs in his jeans, no doubt going for his fucking coke. “It’s just business.”

I adjust my cufflinks, buying time as I examine the all-too-familiar urge suddenly coursing through me.

The need to protect.

To possess .

Troy clears his throat, stepping away from the wall like he’s expecting to break up a fistfight. Rich upgraded from his usual baggie of coke to a slim metal cylinder, a spoon built into its domed lid.

He watches me with a steady gaze as he snorts up some coke, those eyes not budging as he thumbs his nose and sniffs loudly. “All this talk about vetting clients, then you let a fucking fox into the henhouse.”

I frown. “The fuck are you on about?” I swear, Rich pushes all my buttons just for the sheer joy of seeing which one gets a reaction.

“Tell him, Troy.” Rich waves a hand at Troy, looking so much like Myles, I’m scowling before I realize and smooth my face.

Troy is silent until I turn to him, tilting my head.

“Since Zoey didn’t go through the usual onboarding,” Troy says. “Myles wanted to make sure she wasn’t…a threat.”

My knuckles are creaking how I fist my hands. “And what did you find?”

He shrugs, throwing Rich a meaningful look. “Not what Myles was looking for.” When his eyes find mine, an icy dread drags its ragged fingernails down my spine. “But it’s not good, Smith.”

Troy is quiet for so long, I prompt him with a quiet, “Tell me.”

“She owns a diner. Had been living a pretty unremarkable life until a few days ago when she stopped coming to work. Her staff thought she’d taken some personal time, but then the night she came to the Devil’s Luck, her diner burned down.”

I give him an apathetic shrug. But then his words saturate my bristling mind, and I let out a slow breath. “Insurance fraud?”

The twitch of Troy’s mouth shows he’s unimpressed that I leapt to the same conclusion he and Rich already had. He takes a folded paper out of his back pocket, handing it to me.

A vaguely familiar newspaper clipping, something I might have skimmed over during my morning coffee.

And her name, right there in the story.

Owner Zoey Dennen, who inherited the establishment from her mother two years ago, was unavailable for comment.

Staff members expressed shock at the incident, with longtime waitress Danika Carmichael noting that Dennen had been unexpectedly absent from work for several days prior to the fire. “She’s never missed a shift before.”

My eyes skip down the column, hunting for more clues.

Police spokesperson Leslie Ross confirmed the department’s arson investigation unit will work alongside the Fire Marshal’s office to determine the cause of the blaze.

“Explains why she was counting cards that night,” Rich says.

I don’t look at him when I snap out an irritated, “Does it?”

When I’m done scanning the article, my gaze moves to Troy for an explanation.

Him I trust.

Rich is a manipulative coke head with more ulterior motives and hidden agendas than a political convention in election season.

“My man’s on it, digging up what he can. Soon as he reports back to me…” Troy’s voice fizzles away beneath a loud buzz.

My eyes keep darting back to the picture above the article. Blackened walls, melted furniture, shattered glass. Graffiti, somehow not damaged by the inferno.

UR. A$$ IS MINE

Because that wall was tagged after the fire.

Why?

That’s the fucking question they should be asking.

I crumple the article in my fist and drop it to the floor, that spray painted phrase playing on repeat inside my head

“You’re wrong, Rich. This isn’t business anymore.”

Rich sniffs at me, leaning back and meshing his hands in his laps, legs still outstretched like he’s at the fucking beach. “It’s…personal?” he supplies, smirking with the other side of his mouth than the scarred side, for a moment looking just like the goddamn Joker.

“I want to know everything you find out about Zoey Dennen,” I tell Troy.

He tilts his head a fraction of an inch. “You could just ask her.”

Rich snorts. “Our clients don’t care about sob stories. And I sure as fuck don’t either. But if I were you, I’d keep an eye on the silverware whenever she’s around.”

I ignore Rich, pointing at Troy. “Everything. In the meantime, she doesn’t leave my side.”

“Still signing her up for sessions,” Rich calls as I head for the exit. “Clients aren’t gonna like you cramping their style.”

I clap a hand against Troy’s chest, making sure he’s staring at me, not Rich.

“Everything comes to me first,” I murmur. “She’s mi—“ I change what I’d been going to say. “I brought her here. She’s my responsibility.”

Troy doesn’t nod this time, but he doesn’t have to.

If I’ve truly let a fox into the henhouse, then I need to figure out how to take care of it before Myles or Rich knows the full extent. By letting me handle this, he’s not protecting me, but giving me a chance to protect myself…

I shove out of the room, the door banging loudly before the hydraulic hinge can kick in.

…And take necessary action.