Page 81 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

CHECKMATE

~MARNAY~

T he private suite at the Crimson Roulette feels like a mausoleum tonight—all that opulence and excess suddenly hollow, echoing with the ghosts of what used to be an empire.

I close the heavy door behind me, the click of the lock sounding final in a way it never has before.

The walk to my desk feels longer than usual, each step on the Persian rug that cost more than most people's annual salary now feeling like walking toward an executioner's block.

The crystal decanters on the side table catch the low light, amber liquid promising temporary oblivion from the disaster that's unfolding around me.

I don't bother with propriety, grabbing the whiskey bottle directly and taking a long swig that burns all the way down.

The familiar heat is comforting for about three seconds before reality crashes back.

I pour a generous amount over a sphere of ice in my best crystal glass—might as well use the good stuff while I still own it—and settle into my leather chair.

The breath I let out carries the weight of twenty years building this empire, twenty years that are crumbling in a single night.

My phone rings, the sound sharp in the silence. I already know what this call will bring, but I answer anyway. Some part of me still hoping for a miracle, for one piece of good news in this avalanche of catastrophe.

"Did everything go through?" I ask, though my voice already carries the resignation of someone who knows the answer.

There's hesitation on the other end, my lieutenant—former lieutenant now, probably—clearing his throat nervously. "I'm sorry, Sir."

Those two words confirm what I already suspected. But he continues, each word another nail in my coffin.

"The last supporter... you know, the source from South Africa? She just pulled out."

I close my eyes, gripping the phone tighter.

Amara Kruger, the omega who ran the most exclusive establishment in Cape Town.

We'd had a partnership for fifteen years, sharing clients, information, opportunities.

She'd been rock solid through FBI investigations, rival takeover attempts, even that mess with the Russians five years ago.

"I guess they got word of the fire in that small town," he continues, his voice carefully neutral. "Apparently, their alpha is associates with the Lucky Ace Pack. Seems like the stunt left a bad taste in their mouth. Decided they don't want to do financial business with Crimson anymore."

The Lucky Ace Pack. Of course. Even from their little hidey-hole in Montana, they're reaching out, pulling strings, turning my own network against me. I underestimated them. Underestimated her.

The silence stretches between us, but I can tell he's not done. There's something else, something worse.

"All sources have pulled out," he finally says, the words falling like stones into still water.

"Every single one. By morning, Crimson will be out of business.

The licenses are being revoked, the building's being seized for 'investigation,' and the FBI has frozen all associated accounts pending a forensic audit. "

I take another sip of whiskey, letting it burn away the scream building in my throat.

"There's more," he continues, and I can hear him shifting nervously. "A new agency opened yesterday. Crimson Collateral."

The name hits like a slap. My brand, twisted into something else.

"It's not a club exactly. Seems to be a new fighting venue for omegas.

Self-defense training that turns into entertainment, from what we can tell.

Clean, legal, completely above board. They're taking over the entire east section of the Strip.

The organizer is some multimillionaire omega—looks like a vintage pinup model but apparently has connections to every major family from here to New York. "

"Who?" The word comes out rough.

"No idea where she came from or what pack she's serving, but no one can touch her. The Italians are backing her. The Irish too. Even the fucking Yakuza sent flowers for her grand opening. So... we're out of luck."

He pauses, and I can hear him gathering courage for what comes next.

"Let this be the last call between us, Sir. I resign. Good luck with your next endeavor."

The line goes dead.

I lean back in my chair, taking another deep breath that does nothing to calm the rage building in my chest. Twenty years. Twenty fucking years of building this empire, of being untouchable, of owning this city's darkest desires.

Gone. In less than a week, it's all gone.

I finish the whiskey in one long pull, then hurl the crystal glass across the room. It shatters against the wall in an explosion of fragments that catch the light like falling stars. The sound is satisfying for about two seconds before the silence returns, heavier than before.

I drop my head into my hands, trying to think through the alcohol haze that's starting to creep in. There has to be a move left, some play I haven't considered?—

Slow, deliberate clapping breaks through my spiraling thoughts.

My head snaps up, and there she is.

Red.

Sitting in the chair across from my desk like she's been there all along.

She's wearing that costume from the auction night—crimson silk and jewels that catch the light with every movement.

But this time, there's no fear in her posture, no carefully calculated submission.

She's lounging like a queen on a throne, continuing her slow applause with a smile that could cut glass.

"Wow," she says, voice dripping with false admiration. "What a grand performance. I really felt the burning rage. The passion. The complete devastation of a man watching his world burn."

I blink hard, trying to focus through the whiskey and exhaustion. She shouldn't be here. Can't be here. The building's locked down, security everywhere?—

"What are you doing here?" I manage, trying to inject authority into my voice but hearing it come out slurred around the edges.

She tilts her head, considering. "I just wanted a front row seat to your downfall. Nothing more, nothing less. Call it closure. Or maybe just petty satisfaction. I'm not above admitting I enjoy watching karma work."

A laugh escapes me, low and bitter. "You think you've ended me? Pulled my connections because you made a few friends in that small town of yours? Threw around some dollar bills? Made the perfect bid to pull my South African contact away?"

I lean forward, trying to look menacing despite the way the room is starting to tilt slightly.

"You haven't outsmarted me, Red. I'm still the winner here. Ready to take your king in this game of chess we're playing."

Her laughter rings out, bright and genuine, and somehow that's worse than any threat she could make.

"Well, ain't that funny," she says, uncrossing her legs slowly, deliberately.

"This only started because you tried to take away the queen.

Me. You see..." She pauses, examining her nails with affected casualness.

"My men didn't really like that. Sure, burn the farmhouse, that's property.

Things can be rebuilt. But since I almost died and stressed them out? "

She looks up, and her eyes are hard as garnets.

"I'm grounded. Which isn't that big of a deal because I'm going into heat any day now, and that's going to be a rather pleasurable experience. Full of orgasms and bonding and all those things you tried to prevent."

She stands, and I notice her movements are slightly off, like she's performing for an audience I can't see.

"But that kinda sucks for you," she continues, "because there'll be no one else to blame when you're on your next endeavor."

"Next endeavor?" I echo, the words feeling thick in my mouth. "And where's that supposed to be?"

Her smirk widens.

"Isn't it obvious? The afterlife, silly."

The words should sound ridiculous, melodramatic. But there's something in her tone, in the absolute certainty of her delivery, that makes my blood run cold despite the whiskey warmth.

"Oh, but with torture first," she adds conversationally.

"My alphas always say you have to torture before killing.

It's like... foreplay for murder, I guess?

I should become an author, write a guide.

'How Omegas Get Away with Murdering the Men Who Bought and Trafficked Them.

' I'm thinking it would be a bestseller. Maybe Oprah's Book Club material."

I try to scoff, but it comes out wrong. "How are you going to do that, Red? Hmm? Drug me? Isn't that a bit obvious?"

Her laughter this time is delighted, like I've just told the best joke.

"Well, I would love to stoop to your level, but I heard this lovely quote recently. You know, 'when they go low, we go high'? But I'm too savage and merciless for that kind of nobility." She grins, all teeth. "So my version is: when they go low, I take it to hell."

She pauses, tilting her head.

"Get it? Hell? The afterlife? God, I'm funny. I should do stand-up. 'So an omega walks into a casino...'"

I frown, trying to focus, but suddenly I'm seeing two of her. The Red in the chair, and another one standing beside her. Both smiling. Both watching me with those garnet eyes that seem to know something I don't.

My hands. I look down at my hands, and they're shaking. Not from rage or fear but from something else.

Something chemical.

The whiskey.

The fucking whiskey.

She uncrosses her legs with deliberate slowness, standing in one fluid motion.

Her heels click against the floor—that same measured pace from her performance, the one that made me more money in one night than most people see in a lifetime.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Each step closer making my vision blur more.

She reaches my desk, leaning in close enough that I can smell her perfume—cherries and something darker, something that makes my primitive brain scream danger.

"Checkmate, Marnay," she whispers.

Then she's moving away, but my vision is fracturing, multiplying.

I see shadows by the elevator—four of them, tall and broad and patient.

The golden light from the elevator makes them look like demons, like avenging angels, like monsters from every nightmare I've ever had about retribution finally catching up.

I reach out, my hand grasping at air. "Wait... we can work out a deal..."

But my world tilts violently. The floor rushes up to meet me, and I know with crystalline clarity even through the drug haze that I'm doomed. Done. Dead.

The last thing I hear before darkness takes me is a voice—male, cold, familiar.

Rafe Moretti, saying with dark satisfaction:

"Nice to play fire with fire."

F.I.N.