Savor, enjoy.
The man across from me had long ago passed savor and had moved on to slurp. He signaled the waiter for another. Of course, he was too foolish to know that drinking and gambling didn't mix. Or too weak to resist any and all vices offered to him and then to mix them haphazardly, just as he was doing now. And he was about to go down. Hard. A boot to the face. Metaphorically, of course. I resisted the wolfish grin that wanted to spread across my face.
He suddenly looked up at me, meeting my eyes through my glasses, narrowing his. "Have we met before?" he asked. I casually signaled the dealer for a cigarette and leaned forward as he lit it, letting the smoke waft in front of my face, tamping down my senses violently, working not to become overwhelmed, not to grimace. I hated the smell of cigarette smoke, detested it. The man across from me watched the smoke rise, as if in a trance, immediately distracted by the swirling vapors.
"I don't believe so," I said, slurring my words slightly, making sure there was no hint of an accent. I'd worked long and hard to do away with it. He looked back at his cards, pulling at the collar of his tux again.
The other player at the table—a tall, blond man—folded. I caught his eye so briefly; it was only a bare flicker of the lids. An acknowledgment only he would see, much less understand. A sign only two people who had spent years on the streets together, surviving, cheating, looking out for each other, becoming brothers in the truest sense of the word, would recognize. Fionn. He turned and walked out of the room. He had done his job—he'd driven up the stakes.
The security detail wandered by, his hands clasped behind his back, eyeing our table. This establishment knew enough to watch me, knew enough to suspect me of something they'd never prove. I wouldn't let them. Counting cards was no effort on my part anyway. I did it without even thinking, without even concentrating. So it was unlikely I'd ever be suspected if I handled myself appropriately and discreetly. And I rarely played now anyway—I certainly didn't need the funds, and my vices were few, gambling not being one of them. I hadn't played in years. That is, until he started playing here. And now it was only the two of us sitting at this table in this high stakes room.
Savor, enjoy.
The man was intently focused on his cards, considering doing something very, very stupid. Do it. Do something stupid. I knew very well he needed to win—he needed to win desperately. His company was suffering, and badly. I knew because I'd made it my business to know. But I didn't think anyone else knew what dire straits he was in. Not even his family. But I moved that thought aside quickly—I needed to concentrate.
"Let's make this interesting," I said, adding a slight slur and a hiccup to the end of my statement. "What do you say we up the stakes here?"
The man's eyes flashed to mine. I could see the desperation in them as clear as day. God, he was a bloody shite poker player. I'd almost feel sorry for him if I wasn't savoring his impending downfall so much.
"What are you thinking exactly?" he asked, trying and failing to keep the note of anxious excitement out of his voice.
"I'm in for five million," I said, downing my drink.
The pulse jumped in his throat and he stared at his cards for a beat. Do it, do it. "I'm sorry to say I don't have that kind of capital available," he said.
I lowered my lids and shrugged. "Well, it's been fun." I signaled to the man at the door for my tux jacket.
"Wait, wait." Sweat had broken out on his forehead. "I own a company and I'll sign it over to you if you win." He glanced at his hand again, obviously trying to provide himself confidence in his own ridiculous offer.
I laughed. "What would I want with some unknown company?" I signaled the man by the door again.
"It's worth ten times what you're putting in." He was lying. It was barely worth five million at this point. But I didn't care how much it was worth. I wasn't trying to make a profit—not a financial profit anyway. A personal profit? Well, that was a different story. I narrowed my eyes, holding my hand up to the man walking my way with my jacket. He nodded his head and turned.
I looked down at my hand, allowing a miniscule frown to crease my brow. I swayed to the left slightly, caught myself, and shrugged. "Oh, what the hell! Right, André?" I forced out a loud, obnoxious laugh. The beefy security detail with the earpiece walking slowly past nodded at me, his expression cold and removed.
Looking at the dealer, I asked, "Is there someone here who will record this bet?"
"Absolutely, sir." The dealer signaled to a man by the door who came over with a book and wrote down the terms while the man across the table downed the rest of his drink, his knee bouncing uncontrollably. I assumed a bored expression as we both signed our names.
He laid down his hand, three jacks. Just as I'd thought.
"Let's see what you've got," the man said shakily. Nerves seemed to have sobered him a bit. But his face was flushed, the subtle glee in his eyes telling me this was the thing that kept him coming back: this moment right before it was revealed whether he would win or lose. That addictive, excited hopefulness that had taken down so many men before him.
I paused.
Savor, enjoy.
And then I turned my hand over, revealing my four kings. For a moment he simply stared, as if the math wasn't adding up. His face flushed bright red, and he looked like he was going to throw up.
"I believe I just became your boss," I said nonchalantly, allowing my accent to slip through. I tilted my head, removing my glasses. "Actually, now that I consider it, I believe we have met before. Stuart De Havilland, am I right?" I stuck my hand out, a wild satisfaction moving through my blood. "Brogan Ramsay." Stuart's face blanked and then slow comprehension dawned in his slightly inebriated eyes as he stared at me, his face finally blanching of all color. He gaped. "So very nice seein' ya again." I smiled. It felt wolfish. And this time I allowed it.