Page 19 of Secret Hope (Hope Landing: New Recruits #5)

Cassidy stacked her chips, arranging them in her usual manner, but her mind was fracturing into a thousand panicked pieces.

The seven of clubs stared up at her from the felt—second pair, decent kicker.

The oil executive across the table had just raised twelve thousand, his tell as obvious as a neon sign.

Under normal circumstances, this would be an easy call.

But the dealer's left hand rested on the rail, index finger tapping twice.

Vega's signal. Fold.

"Tight play today, Ms. Reynolds," Petrov commented from her right, his aristocratic Russian accent making the observation sound like an accusation. "Not your usual aggressive style."

The man wasn’t wrong.

She managed a professional smile, the one that had graced magazine covers and tournament promotions. "Sometimes patience pays better than aggression."

"Indeed." His pale eyes studied her with the calculating gaze of a man who'd survived Russian prisons and built a shipping empire on the bones of his enemies. "Though one wonders what you're waiting for."

"Raise to thirty thousand," the middle-aged man at her left announced from early position.

Three taps from the dealer. Raise.

Cassidy's hand trembled slightly as she reached for her chips. Everything in her screamed that this was wrong—the cards, the position, the betting pattern. But Vega's demanded she play his tune.

"Raise to ninety thousand," she heard herself say.

Petrov’s eyebrows lifted—the first genuine emotion she'd seen from him all morning. Around the table, players folded in sequence until only the two of them remained. He studied her for a long moment, those dead eyes trying to penetrate her poker face.

Finally, he folded.

As she stacked the stolen chips, nausea rose in her throat. She was building her bankroll with blood money, each pot dragging her deeper into Vega's web. How many more hands before Petrov was eliminated? How many more before he became another corpse with her name attached?

"Impressive bluff," a familiar voice said behind her.

She turned to find Mickey Gaines watching from the rail, his weather-beaten face creased with concern. "Thanks, Mickey."

"Though it's not like you to push with air in that position." His tone was casual, but she heard the question underneath. Mickey had known her too long, watched her play too many tournaments. He could sense something was wrong.

"Mixing up my game," she replied, the lie bitter on her tongue.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You okay, kid? You look like you've seen a ghost."

I have , she thought. Marcus Holloway's ghost, staring at me from a hotel bed with a hole in his forehead.

"Just focused on the game," she said.

Mickey's expression said he wasn't buying it, but before he could press further, the tournament director's voice filled the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a brief delay. Local authorities need to conduct a routine security matter. Please remain at your tables."

They'd found the body. The investigation was beginning.

She caught Adriana Radu’s satisfied smirk from two tables over. Did the woman know what was happening? Was she another of Vega's pawns, or just enjoying Cassidy's obvious discomfort?

Her phone buzzed against her leg. A text from Sophia:

Stay calm. K's eyes on you. Play through.

She glanced toward the rail and spotted Kenji.

He’d returned, positioned where he could watch both her table and the room's exits.

Even from forty feet away, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands stayed loose and ready at his sides.

Whatever news he'd received from his team, it hadn't been good.

The delay stretched on, security personnel moving through the room. They weren't searching for anything—this was about establishing timeline, noting who was present, who might need questioning later. Building the framework that would trap her.

"Tough morning?"

Cassidy turned to find DJ Reagan, her third target, settling into an empty seat at the table to her left. The hedge fund prince wore designer everything, from his Italian shoes to his Swiss watch, but money couldn't buy him the one thing he desperately wanted: respect from the poker community.

"Every morning at the table is tough," she replied carefully.

"True. Though some are tougher than others." He arranged his chips, each stack perfectly aligned. "Heard there was some drama at the hotel. Someone found a body."

Her chip stack scattered as her hand jerked involuntarily, sending a cascade of porcelain discs across the felt. "What?"

"Whoa, easy there." Reagan watched her corral the runaway chips, clearly pleased to have rattled the unflappable Angel.

"Yeah. It was that guy at the second table last night.

Older guy. Hannity? No. Holloway. Found dead in his room this morning.

Security's all over it." He raised a hand, twirling his index finger to indicate the room.

“That’s what all this is about.”

Her throat constricted. "Marcus is... dead?" The shock in her voice wasn't feigned—hearing it spoken aloud, confirmed by someone else, made it real in a way that seeing the body hadn't. "But I just... we were..."

"You knew him?" Reagan leaned forward, suddenly interested.

I spoke to him yesterday. I found his corpse this morning. I’ll probably be framed for his murder.

"He’s not a professional, but we've played at a couple of the same charity tournaments," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He seemed... how did he...?"

"Don't know the details. Just heard security talking." Reagan studied her reaction with uncomfortable intensity. "Dangerous world, high-stakes poker. All that money floating around attracts the wrong element. People who'd do anything to get ahead."

Was that a threat? A warning? Or just the thoughtless commentary of a rich man who'd never faced real danger?

Before she could respond, the delay ended and Reagan headed back to his table. The dealer shuffled, cards whispering across felt like secrets being shared. Cassidy touched her cross through her blouse, lifting a prayer for strength and wisdom.

The cards came. Ace-king suited. A premium hand that would normally have her raising for value. But the dealer's fingers were already moving, setting up whatever signal Vega had predetermined.

She waited, watching those fingers like her life depended on it.

Because it did.

Around her, the tournament continued its deadly dance. Players who thought they were competing for money, unaware they were pawns in something darker. Targets who didn't know they'd been marked for death. And her—the Angel of the Felt, falling from grace one forced decision at a time.

"Your action, Ms. Reynolds," the dealer prompted.

She looked at her cards again, then at the dealer's hand. Four taps. All-in.

Her throat felt lined with sandpaper. An all-in with ace-king would be aggressive but reasonable. Not at all her type of play.

"All-in," she said, her voice steadier than her hands as she pushed forward her entire stack.

The table erupted in surprised murmurs. The Angel of the Felt, playing like a desperate amateur. The commentators would have a field day analyzing this apparent tilt.

One by one, players folded. But Petrov's pale eyes locked onto hers with the calculating gaze of someone who'd survived Russian prisons and built an empire.

"Interesting play," he murmured, his aristocratic accent making it sound like an accusation. His fingers drummed against his chips. "Very aggressive for someone who's been so... accommodating today."

The dealer's hand moved almost imperceptibly—a subtle adjustment that anyone watching would miss. But Cassidy caught it. The fix was in.

"I call," Petrov announced, sliding his chips forward with elegant finality.

Cassidy's stomach churned as they flipped their cards. Her ace-king against his pocket queens—a hand that should have her dominated. A reasonable confrontation—unless you knew what was coming.

The deal came ace-seven-three, giving her top pair. Petrov's expression remained marble-smooth, but she caught the slight tightening around his eyes.

The turn brought a four. The river—another ace.

"Trip aces wins," the dealer announced with practiced neutrality, already pushing the massive pot toward her. "Mr. Petrov is eliminated."

But something was wrong. Petrov's cards—she'd seen queens, hadn't she? Now they showed king-queen. The dealer had switched them somehow, ensuring her aces would triumph. The manipulation was so smooth even she'd almost missed it.

Petrov stood slowly, his composure intact despite losing his tournament life. As he passed her chair, he paused, leaning down as if to offer congratulations.

"I know what you're doing," he whispered, his breath cold against her ear.

"The dealers, the convenient cards. I've survived too long not to recognize a setup.

" His fingers briefly touched the table near her chips.

"But you're not the architect, are you? Just another pawn.

Be careful, little angel. Whoever's pulling your strings won't hesitate to cut them when you're no longer useful. "

He straightened, nodded cordially to the table, and walked away with the dignity of a man who'd just recognized his execution had been choreographed.

Cassidy pulled in the chips mechanically, each one feeling heavier than it should. One target down. Blood on her hands, even if no one had died. Yet. The integrity she'd built her career on, crumbling with each rigged hand.

Her eyes found Reagan across the table. Two down, one to go. How long before Vega demanded she destroy him too? How long before someone else noticed what Petrov had seen—that the Angel of the Felt had fallen from grace?

"Ante up," the dealer announced.

Cassidy tossed in her chips and waited for the next hand in a game where the only winning move might be not to play at all.

But that choice had been stolen from her the moment she'd found Marcus Holloway's body.

Now all she could do was minimize the damage and pray that Kenji's team had found the miracle she desperately needed.