Page 8 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

The Devil’s Den nightclub is a ten-minute drive from the casino. Dark, crowded, and twice as noisy with its massive sound system and pounding music. Precisely why I use the staff entrance to reach my destination.

My phone call with Myles was short.

When he requests an audience at The Den, there’s no negotiating. Even if you’re knuckles-deep in a woman’s pussy.

I handle the financial empire that keeps the Balmont Boys untouchable, cleaning their dirty money through a network only I fully understand.

It makes me valuable, but not untouchable.

When Myles gives orders, I execute them without hesitation.

A haze of cigar smoke and obnoxiously pungent cologne rushes to greet me, cloying in my throat despite the churn of air conditioning as I enter the nest of hedonic decadence that is The Den.

These walls soak up the depravity this place thrives on, only to ooze it out again like a hallucinogenic toxin.

Red velvet, polished brass, and the constant indistinct murmur of powerful men making million-dollar deals as they slide a hand up the girl on their lap’s skirt—it’s a vibe.

Moving from the clean and clinical staff-only hallway into something so intimate and obscene is a context shift that I thought I was used to by now, but it’s a visceral shock today.

My short time with Zoey ratcheted up my senses a thousand-fold. My dick’s only just settled down to a semi. I was hoping to spend much more time with her, but letting her simmer in her misfortune is almost as cruel as forcing her to come again.

The Den, conveniently nestled beneath our nightclub to ensure discrete entry, is a gentleman’s club whose members can buy anything they want…and we sell it to them with a smile.

There’s no need for a velvet rope here.

The doors only open for men who can pay the obscene membership fee. Access to our Angels only happens after they’re vetted by myself or Richmond.

Even on a weeknight, the cigar lounge has at least forty people milling around. Mostly men, of course, but some have been joined by wives or mistresses. Mostly mistresses, of course.

Cocktail waitresses in tiny red sequined dresses serve champagne or scotch in crystal flutes and tumblers.

We’ve trained our staff to focus diligently on their clientele, but at least two of the girls glance up and don’t immediately look away when they spot me.

I make a mental note of their names. Troy will chastise them later, however he sees fit.

Several guests greet me as I pass, their eyes lighting up like I’ve pulled a rabbit pulled from a fine velvet hat.

I keep my interactions with them brief, trading well-planned pleasantries.

Did they close that Hong Kong deal they wouldn’t stop bragging about?

Are the kids enjoying their gap year in Spain?

Did Martha finally file the divorce papers?

They want to be noticed, appreciated, revered…especially by people like me.

I give them exactly what they’re paying for, and not a red cent more.

Leaving the dimly lit cigar room, I head down a hallway studded with five pairs of doors on both walls. Of each pair, one door leads into a playroom, the second into a gallery.

The two bouncers who supervise this area of The Den glance my way, both nodding before returning to a hushed conversation about baseball.

I swipe my keycard to gain entry to the first gallery on the right.

Myles Balmont lies sprawled on a plush sofa, arms draped on either side of the headrest. The lighting is dim inside here, provided only by the four down lights in the corners of the room. Recliners stand scattered around the room, all facing a floor-to-ceiling window into the play room beyond.

I slip off my jacket and drape it over the back of a recliner. Myles always turns up the heat to unbearable levels. The nape of my neck is already prickling as I pop open the buttons on my cuffs and roll up my sleeves.

When I take a seat beside him, Myles bestows a beatific smile upon me.

“Heard you had quite the evening,” he says in his melodious voice, sighing dramatically. “I always miss the fun stuff.”

Blue eyes study me above a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard as I sit back and kick my legs out, crossing them at the ankles. He used to dye his dark hair when the first gray strands appeared, but lately it seems he’s leaning into the silver fox look.

I tweak my glasses. “Thought you were only due back tomorrow night.”

“Trip was a sham.” There’s an unhappy twist to his mouth. “That wrinkled old ball sack blindsided me.”

“Color me surprised.”

“Aye.” Myles shrugs, then snaps his fingers in the general direction of a young woman seated primly at the cocktail table in the corner.

She rises gracefully to bare feet and hurries over to the wet bar to fix a drink.

The flimsy red satin robe she’s wearing does little to hide the lithe body beneath.

But for once, I’m not interested in watching Isabel go about her duties.

Must have something to do with the snarky thief that keeps crossing my mind.

Zoey put up such a fuss when I handed her over to Troy and told him to take her to my room, you’d swear I’d threatened to hang her.

I’m not sure if she was indignant about still being half-naked, or that I called her kitten and told Troy to use his belt as a collar if she tried anything.

I believed she called him a brainless ogre when he grabbed her. Or was it a troll?

“Told me it was a hunting trip, but it was just an excuse for the pruny old cunt to harass me. Didn’t even see a fucking deer.” Myles plucks at the lapel of his jacket.

I wonder why.

His neon green-and-blue plaid hunter’s jacket probably sent every animal within a mile bolting out of sheer confusion.

“Harass you about what?” I frown as I adjust a suspender, thinking back to the sound it made when it hit Zoey’s thigh.

Christ, she was so fucking wet. My cock hasn’t been that hard for…weeks? Months?

It took every ounce of self control I had not to bend her over that tiny desk and pound into her until she begged me to stop.

I’ve spent years building walls between business and pleasure, maintaining strict control in both worlds. Zoey threatens those boundaries with every defiant glare and reluctant moan.

I should hand her off to Richmond, treat her like just another Angel in our stable.

Just the thought makes my jaw clench.

I shift in the seat, wrenching my attention back to Myles when I realize he’s still talking.

“—wouldn’t shut up about my lack of contributions, and why couldn’t I be more like my brothers?”

“Has he gone senile?” I shake my head as I slip off my glasses and polish them on my shirt. “We launder eighty percent of his income through our operations. Without you, he wouldn’t even have a roof over his head.”

I get a deadpan look from Myles. “If anyone could forget who’s responsible for pumping out millions of dollars of clean money for them every fucking week, it’s him. Wish the fuckin’ wankstain would just boots up already.”

Myles is always in a shitty mood when he comes back from a visit with his father, but this is the worse I’ve seen him in a long time.

At seventy-three, Balmont Senior is well on his way to retirement, but the old miser still prefers public beheadings to golf…

and I don’t see that changing soon. As much as he hates his father and prays for his demise on a weekly basis, I know Myles secretly wishes Archie will live forever.

With Balmont Senior gone, Myles will be next in line…

unless he can convince one of his younger brothers to take over.

“Enough about that devil.” Myles cracks his knuckles, an impish light dancing in his blue eyes. “I’d rather talk about Angels.”

I grit my teeth, slowly replacing my glasses.

Isabel brings us each a tumbler of cognac, head low, peering at me through her lashes. Usually, I’d appreciate the notes like a fine wine, as much as her submissive posture, but tonight I toss it back without a care for how it burns my throat and don’t spare her a second glance.

Myles’s eyebrow twitches up at this, but he says nothing, waiting for my thoughts to percolate.

The Devil’s Den is renowned for its world-class DJ line up, award-winning cocktails, and innovative interior design. And if you have enough zeros in your bank account, you’re able to access entertainment not available to other patrons just one floor below.

But after losing three Angels last month, we’re left with a deficit of fresh meat to supply our VIP clients.

Zoey arrived at the perfect time, but for some reason I’m struggling to nail down, I don’t want to announce her yet.

“I’m working on it,” I mutter, tapping a nail against the glass to summon Isabel so she can top me up.

“Work a little faster, would you? Our regulars are getting bored.” Myles rolls his head to the side, staring at me with exaggerated annoyance. “Wouldn’t want them spending their hard-earned trust funds on cartel imports, would we?”

Myles twirls the contents of his tumbler with a twist of his wrist, his eyes latching onto Isabel when she exchanges my drink with a fresh one. “Swear, I see one of those Colombian fucks, and all I wanna do is blow their faces off with a shotgun.”

Ever since I met him, I’ve been hard pressed to believe Myles ever set foot in Scotland. It’s surreal hearing his Scottish slang when I joined in meetings with him and his father. Half the time I had no fucking clue what they were talking about.

But if I ever need a reminder, his hatred of the Bogota cartel is always a good refresher.

They’ve been our rivals since I joined the Balmont’s, and they take their role seriously.

They’re forever trying to one-up us. Used to be they targeted our laundering operation.

The minute they figured out a laundromat or a bakery or a restaurant was under our thumb, they’d try to get the owners to pay them protection for their business instead.

If they didn’t comply, the cartel would gut it.