Haille Manchief was a rich motherfucker. Bred of old money and wicked schemes.
I’d made him richer.
Legitimate investments that had turned over a multitude of times.
I supposed he’d been returning the favor by inviting me into his underworld. Or maybe he’d only needed one look at me to recognize the vile stain that lived within.
Oz and I edged down a long corridor before we dipped through another set of double doors and headed down the wide, spiral staircase to the basement below.
“Good luck.”
“Now you and I both know I won’t need it.”
Fighting a smile, he dipped his head before heading back up to the main floor.
Downstairs, the air was thinned, dense with the scent of expensive bourbon, cigar smoke, and sweaty expectation.
Gathered around the table were a group of greedy men. Some filthy rich who had plenty to lose and others who would fair far better by packing their shit and leaving before it was too late. Their mistresses lingered around the room, some standing behind them like good luck charms. More likely consolation prizes to soothe them when their egos were stung.
Moving toward an open seat, I glanced around at the men’s faces. I knew in a beat, I would win.
Losing cost you everything. Greed was the only way to survive. Pushing ahead. Taking what you needed before someone else stole it from you.
I took my seat, and Haille lifted his chin my direction, the old bastard puffing at his cigar as he rocked back in his chair. He sat three seats to the left, his smile wry, like he knew I would do whatever it required, too, and he took some twisted satisfaction in that fact.
The valet came downstairs and dumped the pile of keys he’d collected onto the middle of the table while the dealer divvied chips for their worth.
The asshole next to me rubbed his hand on the back of his beefy neck as nerves visibly rattled through his body.
A grin pulled at my mouth.
This was going to be fun.
Only the grin slid off my face when I felt the disturbance. This feeling that saturated the air in a clotted dread.
Awareness slipped through my senses.
The kind that promised the faulty foundation I’d been standing on had just been ripped out from under me.
Oz led another player downstairs, and the man slowly rounded down, the clack of his shoes echoing on the wood steps like the tapping of destruction.
The sense only grew as he came more into view, until that awareness turned into shocking recognition.
It pitched the air out of my lungs and sent my defenses to high alert.
Ice slipped down my spine, and any warmth that still remained in my blood went cold.
Jarek Urso crawled to the underbelly of the house like the scum that he was.
A flash of rage singed through my being.
Fierce.
Savage.
A swell of lightheadedness rushed to my brain.
I couldn’t fucking breathe.