Page 66 of Stolen Empire

The third watches me enter with eyes tracking my movement across the room.

He's probably checking me out.

This tiny pencil skirt and clingy tank top are dreadful.

They make me look like a floozy, but if it helps sell the package, then whatever.

I'm here to get connected and get the fuck out.

Nothing more.

And if I can't do this right, I'll be a prisoner forever.

I take the seat Dimitri told me to take, between the courier and the neutral player.

The felt is sticky under my palms as I slide some cash across the table, being sure to flick a nervous glance around the room.

The wire taped between my tits tickles, but I don’t dare touch it and draw attention.

"New face," the man with the cigarette says.

His voice is gruff, worn down by years of smoke and shouting.

It reminds me of my grandfather in Perm, but that was years ago.

He's probably dead by now.

"New to you," I say, keeping my tone a bit jittery.

The better I sell this, the more likely the Radich crew is to pick me up.

He smirks but doesn’t press, and our final man stumbles in, a bit tipsy from what I can tell.

He collapses into his chair and drops his cash for buy-in before the dealer starts distributing cards and chips.

I pick mine up slowly, counting under my breath.

It's a habit I've perfected over the past two days.

Loud enough to be noticed.

Quiet enough to seem unconscious.

The game moves quickly.

I win the first hand with a pair of tens, then lose the next three in a row.

My pile of chips dwindles.

I curse under my breath, loud enough for the table to hear.

"Rough night," one of the Radich soldiers says.

He's younger than the others, his face smooth and unlined.

He's been checking me out for the past ten minutes solid and thinks he's being smooth about it.

But I've been reading him.