FALLON

"Place your bets," I call out, my voice threading through the smoky room of the casino floor. A shiver runs up my spine, feeling eyes on me. And not those of Peter Pervy, as I like to call him. He's been eyeing me all night through his drunken haze, conveniently forgetting his wife and kids at home.

The eyes of someone else sends that same spine-tingling chill up my spine, making the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I lift my gaze to the level above again, meeting the glare of someone far more sinister than the drunk man with a wandering eye across from me.

I'd prefer Peter's leering gaze; he makes my skin crawl when drunk, but this man sends the blood in my veins ice-cold, knowing I've caught his attention.

Leone Pressutti, my boss.

Not just my boss; he's also the city's most notorious mob boss. The Pressutti family had a notorious reputation for controlling the criminal underworld in this city. Leone now owns his family's entire empire. Leone and Milo are the epitome of danger and allure. Leone, tall, with his dark, piercing eyes and an aura that exudes power, commands attention wherever he goes. The man is a monster and looks the part too, a sharp jawline, black hair styled to perfection, and broad shoulders. And that accent drips with a seductive charm that can make even the strongest-willed person weak in the knees. He is the devil in disguise, or maybe the grim reaper, since no one survives crossing Leone.

Milo on the other hand, has a rugged charm accentuated by his chiseled features and piercing but equally dark eyes, with his tousled dark hair and a hint of stubble. Despite his cold and calculating demeanor, there's an undeniable magnetism about him that draws people in, making him just as alluring as his boss but no less deadly. I've seen the way the ladies here hang off him; Milo has no issues with the ladies.

And here they are, watching me deal cards in a smoky casino, and my stomach twists at the thought.

I take in a breath as our eyes meet. Leone's eyes are dark and piercing, looking like obsidian pools from my vantage point. His gaze is cold and calculating, scanning me from head to toe, taking in every detail. My heart pounds in my chest; attention from Leone was normally a bad thing.

I maintain my composure, keeping my face calm and neutral as I continue to deal cards to the players at my table. But inside, I'm trembling with fear. I am used to blending into the background. This is trouble I can't afford right now.

Suddenly, the clinking of chips and the whir of machines blur into nothing, becoming a distant hum. A man leans in close, his breath warm against my ear.

It's Peter. He leans forward, waving his hand in front of my face, his leering gaze raking over me. He grips my hand, forcing my attention back to the table. I stare at Peter Pervy, startled, before remembering I am supposed to be dealing cards.

For the first time, I'm grateful to have Peter's attention as I force myself to focus back on the game at hand.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing here on a Sunday night?" he slurs drunkenly like he doesn't see me every day.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes while his eyes linger on the cascade of my long, wavy, blonde hair that tumbles freely over my shoulders, stopping just below my chest. Peter's gaze then hones in on my chest, and he licks his dried-out lips, making me want to slap him.

"Dealing cards and breaking hearts, Peter, you know exactly what I'm doing," I reply with a wink, serving up the charm with a side of sass. It's part of the game, after all.

My deep green eyes meet his unflinchingly as I deal out the next hand, seeing the desperation in his. Whether you're a male or female dealer, Peter always turns flirty, believing it will improve his odds. The man is delusional.

"Blackjack!" a woman at the far end of the table cheers, her voice slicing through the soft chatter.

"Congratulations, ma'am," I say, pushing the chips her way with a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. Inside, numbers tumble and turn; I've tracked every card, counting as each one hits the table. It's a dangerous game if caught, and I played for stakes. Yet, necessity is a relentless teacher, and card counting has become second nature to me. Half the time, I don't even realize I'm doing it.

Blackjack has always been my game of choice. Counting is straightforward because it relies heavily on watching the suits and keeping a running tally of the high and low cards dealt.

This shows me when the odds swing more favorably. However, each shuffle resets the dance, and the count begins again.

In Texas Hold'em, counting cards is less about memorization and more about understanding game dynamics. Unlike blackjack, where you track exact cards, here you observe the flow-high, medium, and low cards and suits that surface. Noting how many of a certain suit appear after the flop helps gauge the likelihood of a flush around the table. I usually avoid that game if I can help it, but if not, I always have other ways. Like at Verdigris the other night, I used a riskier tactic-hand mucking. Holding a high card in reserve, like an Ace or King, I'd wait for a moment of distraction, then swap it in. High stakes, high risk. In those underground games, I've seen severe consequences for getting caught, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

My fingers sweep the cards, ready for the next round. To any onlooker, I am just another dealer among the sea of green felt tables. But beneath the surface, my mind races, tallying suits and values faster than a roulette wheel spins.

"Hit me," comes the gruff command from Peter.

"Are you sure, sir?" I ask, knowing the odds are not in his favor after turning cards for the other 5 people at the table. But it isn't my place to argue, only to serve cards, and I hope I make enough tips to play the underground games tomorrow. I'm still short, even after my win at Verdigris last night. If I don't, I risk borrowing or selling my soul for the chance.

I used to only play the smaller games, mainly wannabe gangsters or small league dealers. It's how I supplement my income, but lately, my eyes have been on the bigger games. Those are the games people bet their lives on, their families' lives. Mine, I'm willing to gamble, but my family's definitely not.

Over the past five years, I've learned every game here, from 3 to 5 in hand poker, blackjack, and roulette. I know the cards, which sides of the dice are weighted, and the chances, just as I remember Emma's medications. Unfortunately, these players are locals and gambling addicts who barely have a few cents to rub together tonight. Meaning my tips will be small unless they win.

"Straight," Peter shoots back, though I don't miss the desperation in his gaze. Another thing I've learned is that I'm good at reading people, the subtle twitch of someone's lips, and the flick of their eyes as they scan a table or the cards. I can tell when their hand excites or disappoints by how they sit or breathe. Everything is a sign of a winning or losing hand, and by the look on Peter's face, this hand decides if he goes home or plays another round. And I know he's going home.

I flip the card and watch his face crumble. The card I flip adds to his ruin, and his face falls.

He mutters, throwing his hands up before storming away, his drink sloshing recklessly onto the plush carpet. Peter should have walked away. I shouldn't have warned him by asking him if he was sure, but I know Peter has a family at home, a family that's on the brink of losing everything because of his gambling addiction. With a heavy sigh, I watch Peter storm off to the exit and leave before my eyes flick to the floor above. I take in a relieved breath when I notice my boss no longer watching me.

However, that feeling of relief lasts about two seconds. I am about to deal the next hand to a new patron who slides onto the stool across from me when I feel a presence behind me. The heat of them seeps into my back, and I'm suddenly alert to my surroundings as I stare in horror at the man who just took Peter's seat.

LEONE

My eyes scan the floor below, looking for the woman responsible for ripping me off. She's unaware that her fate is now in my hands, an undesirable position to be sure. The casino floor below us buzzes with the electric thrum of excitement and desperation, the sounds of hopes and dreams being kindled or crushed beneath the relentless turn of cards and roll of the dice. I watch the scene unfold with detached amusement from my vantage point on the mezzanine. Their misfortune lines my pockets. The neon lights cast an eerie glow on the players below. Every face tells a unique story, be it tragic or comedic.

They are nothing, mere ants, wasting their lives gambling for a chance to change their lives, yet they won't find it here. The odds never favor them; I'd be out of business if they were.

The odds, cruelly skewed, ensure my empire's survival, a truth they willingly blind themselves to in their pursuit of fortune.

Rule One: abandon all hope at the door.

This is not a place of triumphs; it's a graveyard of dreams, where my house preys upon the naive and the desperate. Loaded dice; the cards marked, and the slots are a siren song leading to a financial shipwreck. The thrill of the risk and the adrenaline of the near-win are the hooks that sink deep into their souls, dragging them back time and time again.

Rule Two: Recognize the illusion of the big win.

It's a mirage in the desert of despair, an oasis that vanishes upon approach. The illusion of the big win is the dealer's best trick. It's a phantom, a cruel joke played upon those foolish enough to believe in fairy tales. The cycle is merciless; loss breeds desperation, leading them back into my clutches.

In this world, addiction wears the pretty smiles of the girls dealing and is housed on smooth felt tables. It whispers sweet nothings of luck and fate into the ears of the doomed, seducing them into believing that just one more roll. One more hand and one more spin will be their salvation. But in this game, the only salvation lies in walking away, a feat few have the strength to achieve.

Rule Three: The house always wins; its foundations are built on broken dreams and empty wallets.

In this game, money, lives, relationships, and futures are gambled away. Gambling here is more than a game-it's a chasm few can escape. Here, lives are not just wagered; they're devoured, piece by piece, until nothing remains but the hollow shell of a once-hopeful soul.

This is my kingdom of despair, where hope is slaughtered under Lady Luck's cold, unfeeling gaze. The casino is more than a den of vice-it's a world where hope and despair are currency; in gambling, the only winner is the one who holds the deck.

Milo sidles up to me, leaning casually against the railing. His usually impassive face betrays a hint of tension as he looks out over the casino floor.

"How was your meeting with your father?" Milo asks, and I glare at the floor below.

"As always, he wants me to marry. The establishment's shareholders want a family man in charge."

"I thought you were buying it?" Milo asks.

"They don't want to let go of the Red Lantern. Verdigris owed debt, so they had no choice. Red Lantern, the Mexicans want to make it into a family-safe establishment; they've agreed to go 50/50 but are concerned about the optics of my bachelor persona"

Milo sighs. We planned to buy the entire strip, but my father believed I needed to remain on the good side of the Mexican Cartel. The last thing we need here is a war.

"Since when is your father worried about the Mexican Cartel?" Milo asks.

"He isn't, but we may need them if things go south with the Russians, and right now, my father has the governor breathing down his neck," I tell him.

"So, why does that matter? The governor is in your pocket," Milo states with a shrug.

"Yes, but he said he can't afford cartel wars with the upcoming election."

"So, what are you going to do? Marry to please the cartel?"

"Definitely not for them. But I need to figure something out. My brother has agreed to marry Santos' daughter to strengthen alliances. I know he's doing that because he hopes to get his hands on that club," I tell him.

"I can't believe your father still tolerates him after everything with Lyd..." I glare at Milo. I don't need the reminder of my ex-wife and what he took from me.

Milo knows better than to mention her name, so I'm surprised at his slip of the tongue. Changing the subject, I motion toward the card dealer on the floor below, whom I've been watching since I left the meeting with my father.

"You're positive it's her?" I ask, my voice a low rumble.

His gaze goes to where Fallon deals cards with grace and precision, which belies the tension simmering beneath her calm exterior. "Positive," he confirms, not taking his eyes off the girl. "It was her."

Milo lets out a heavy sigh, the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing between us. "You know what this means?" I ask, although it's more a statement than a question.

His fascination with her is a curious thing, uncharacteristic of a man of his stature. Yet, this girl has had his attention unbeknownst to her for five years. Despite this, he still came to me when he caught her cheating Verdigris. She may have stolen his attention, but I hold his loyalty, and soon, I'll hold her life in my hands.

Milo knows this, but I must be sure this won't break him. I worry it will, the fact is that he could easily kidnap and bend her to his will. But he hasn't disclosed much about his obsession. Instead, he has watched her from the shadows, through the cameras, for five years and done nothing.

Milo shifts uncomfortably, his loyalty battling against the draw he feels toward her. "My loyalty is to you," he states, a hint of resignation in his tone. "She cheated you. Do what you gotta do."

"I'm curious how she bought into those games," I admit. Milo lets out an exasperated breath, and I glance at him; he knows how.

"You know?" I ask. Although it is more of a statement than a question, I can tell by how he doesn't want to answer. He nods once, and I curse under my breath.

"She is a daring little thing," I mutter. No one crosses me, and she would have to know it's suicide to steal from me.

"And feisty. I spoke with Verdigris security earlier. Apparently, she waltzed in there and demanded to be allowed to play. When they said no, she gave them a mouthful."

"And they still let her enter?" I scoff.

"Probably thought she would be an easy win." Milo shrugs. My eyes narrow on him.

"Well, they were wrong," I say, slightly annoyed.

"So, what do you want to do?" Milo probes, and I know he is curious about what I have planned for her. Usually, those who cross me are men, none of whom live for much longer. However, women are easy to sell off or willing to negotiate their flower for payment.

I don't traffic women; that's my father's way of dealing with them. But this woman owes a lot, so I am seriously debating selling herself to the highest bidder to get her off my plate. Part of me, however, has a strange feeling Milo would probably buy her for himself. Which in turn would cost me more, knowing he won't have what she owes me and would have to borrow it.

I study Fallon's movements, the way her deep green eyes scan the room, missing nothing. Her blonde hair cascades over her shoulders. She is beautiful, undoubtedly, but her beauty is not what captures my attention. It's the sharpness of her mind, the calculated risks she takes; she didn't just play the slots; she entered the underground games, which are teeming with men who easily scare off most women.

Instead, she challenged them, and I want to know why.

"That's the thing," I muse aloud. "I don't have to do anything. I could leave Fallon for you to handle, knowing your... what would we call it, fondness, obsession? You watch her more than you watch my back when here." I laugh. Milo nudges me with a shake of his head before turning his attention back to her.

Milo's gaze hardens as he watches her, a conflict raging behind his eyes. "So, what do you want to do?" I ask, turning the decision over to him.

"What we always do," he replies after a moment, his voice firm. "We take care of it. We can't show weakness, not now, with the Russians breathing down our necks."

The Russians have been a thorn in our side, interfering with my shipments. A bold move, signaling a dangerous shift in the underground power balance, so a cheating card dealer playing her own house is the last thing I need.

Fallon meets our gaze from below unflinchingly. "She doesn't scare easily," I muse, astonished at her audacity.

"Or she has a death wish," Milo adds in a dark tone.

I shake my head slightly. "She can't fear death. Not if she stepped into Verdigris." The underground games at Verdigris are notorious-brutal, unforgiving, and typically a man's domain. "A woman joining those games..." I trail off, my interest piqued.

"She must be desperate," Milo concludes, and I nod in agreement. A woman like her risks far too much by stepping foot into those games where women are swapped like currency or used to settle debts. Indeed, she wouldn't risk her life in such a way without a compelling reason.

I turn back to the scene below, a plan forming in my mind: Fallon McAllister, a dealer in my casino, a card shark at Verdigris, a woman who doesn't flinch under the gaze of the city's most dangerous men.

There's an undeniable allure to her. She deals another hand, her fingers deft and sure, oblivious that her fate is being decided just a few feet above her.

Turning to Milo, his gaze is still on her. "Keep a close eye on her. She's clever, more so than she lets on. And Milo," I pause, ensuring I have his full attention. "Don't let your feelings cloud your judgment. We can't afford any slip-ups."

"Understood," he says, but there's a lingering trace of something unspoken in his eyes. Something that has me questioning my decision to kill her. Either way, I want to see her reaction when she realizes my gaze is more sinister than she comprehends.

FALLON

The hairs on my neck rise, and I know it is my boss. He's been watching me all night. I could feel his gaze, but now I know the source behind it; I want to hide. Moreover, I am one of the casino's longest-standing dealers. He has never paid this much attention to me, so it has me on edge.

My eyes scan my surroundings subtly as I smile at the newcomer across from me, another person whose attention gives me the creeps. Where is my father? By this time, he is usually on his second round of the floor. He's a cleaner here. He got me this job five years ago, but I haven't seen him all night.

Milo is my boss's right-hand man. "Hit me," Milo, the burly man in the seat across from me, grunts, his gold rings glinting in the dim light as they drum on the table. He sends me a wink, and my breath lodges in my throat. I'm not imagining it. I'm on their radar, but what for? However, I am good at reading people. I am equally skilled at wearing a mask.

"Are you sure?" I ask, one eyebrow arching, my voice a honey blend between challenge and daring. My fingers itch to reveal the card, my mind rapidly calculating the odds.

"Positive," Milo smirks.

I lay down an ace, and his triumphant roar matches the smug lift of my lips. "Blackjack," I announce, my hands moving to pay out his winnings, the motions fluid and practiced.

"Fallon, you're good luck, but you knew the card before it went down, didn't you?" he chuckles, tossing me a chip as a tip before leaning back and steepling his fingers under his chin as he watches me.

"Lucky guess," I correct him. He arches his brow.

"Or maybe it's all skill."

"A good skill you have, don't you think?" he asks, and my eyes flick to him briefly, then away. There appears to be some hidden meaning to his words, one I don't wish to find out about. His gaze makes me nervous, makes my skin itch as fear wraps around me like a snake threatening to constrict me before it devours me whole. He's daring me to deny that I count cards, but why? How long have they been watching me to notice? I say nothing, knowing silence is sometimes better than talking myself out of a situation. Words can be reversed or played against you, and I am not willing to risk a fumble with my nervousness right now. Instead, I giggle, playing along like his words mean nothing.

Laughter fills the table as patrons momentarily forget their losses and find joy in Milo's words.

But then I notice my father, Nathan McAllister, in the reflection of a slot machine, maneuvering through the chaos with his janitor's cart. His graying hair looks white under the lights and the glow of the slot machines.

As he bends to clean up a spilled drink, his kind blue eyes meet mine, a silent conversation at a glance. Desperation lurks there, well hidden beneath layers of his love and concern for my sister; knowing who stands close watching me has him also on edge. Stay away, Dad, is all I can think. It's bad enough I've drawn their attention. We won't leave unscathed if he gets too close to question why.

"Is everything okay, Fallon?" Seat two-a middle-aged woman named Sondra, who loves blackjack-eyes me curiously.

"Perfect," I assure her, flashing a grin that doesn't quite reach my eyes. I can't afford distractions, not when every second here means another dollar towards Emma's treatment. Yet, the way my father looked at me has my stomach twisting, a feeling that intensifies when I notice Milo studying my father.

"Let's keep this party rolling, shall we?" I beckon to the cocktail waitress, ordering my players a round on the house. It is a calculated move, but a happy, drunk player is a spending player. Yet, the heat of Leone behind me gets hotter; I can almost feel him breathing down my neck.

"Your old man's working hard tonight," Milo observes, nodding toward where my father has moved on to wiping down machines. I swallow the lump forming in my throat. One part of me wonders how he knows my name. The only names I've heard Mr. Pressutti or Milo speak are those being scolded, and I have never been one of them. But he says my name as if we are familiar.

"Always does," I reply, keeping my tone light. Dad's presence here is a double-edged sword-comfort in proximity laced with the constant fear of him being hurt by the rowdier patrons or losing ones, his health deteriorating right alongside my sister's.

"Guess hard work runs in the family," Milo says, giving me a look that suggests something else. And for once, I am at a loss; this man, just like my boss, is hard to read.

"Dealing cards is hardly rocket science," I deflect, busying myself with the deck.

"Maybe not, but you've got a head for numbers like no one else and card suits." He taps his temple, a knowing smile on his lips.

"It comes with the territory," I say, dealing another round as my heart pounds a warning against my ribs. It is essential to maintain the facade of the cool, composed dealer. But I don't like how he's reading me like I'm an open book. It's almost as if he taunts me with the fact that he knows something I don't. Fingertips graze the back of my neck as someone swipes my hair over one shoulder.

Then hands meet the table on either side of my hips, and heat presses against my back.

"Explains why she is our best dealer," comes a deep, menacing voice behind me. His breath sweeps my neck., and Sondra's gaze darts to mine before she quickly leaves the table, knocking her stool over as she does.

My eyes go to Milo, who watches, almost amused at my discomfort, which worsens when Leone dips his face closer, his nose skimming the column of my neck as he inhales deeply. Milo smiles wickedly, and I gulp when I feel Leone's hand brush one finger down my arm before it rests back on the table at my side. However, Milo's following words send my blood cold while a chill ripples up my spine.

"I heard you've been playing yourself recently at Club Verdigris?" Milo asks, and my heartbeat thumps harder against my ribs.

It's not a question, but a statement.

Since his statement clearly didn't warrant an answer, I deal the cards. He stands up.

"Mr. Pressutti was interested in learning that his newest establishment was familiar with you, that you took out every table and walked out with quite the sum last night?"

Mr. Pressutti's hand moves to grip my hip. He squeezes it, his fingertips digging in before his touch turns gentle. That same hand then moves, slipping beneath my blouse and caressing my ribs before he steps back. The heat of his chest leaves my back.

I swallow. It's true, but not nearly enough to cover Emma's heart surgery. Milo taps the table. "I'll be seeing you later, Fallon," Milo tells me with a nod. I watch him wander off, only to spot the floor supervisor watching me.

"Last hand, Fallon. Time for a break," my supervisor calls out from across the room, sensing the tension. Crap! This is the last thing I need to be under the scrutinizing eyes of management.

"Sure thing," I reply, waving Marcus over to take over my table while he's empty. I stand up and stretch my legs, feeling the weight of an intense gaze upon me. I turn around, only to come face to face with the devil himself. Leone Pressutti.

My heart beats quicker when he raises his hand, cupping my neck while his thumb caresses my cheek.

"So innocent looking when she's as guilty as sin," he purrs, the pad of his thumb moving along my jaw, his hand on the side of my neck holding me in place.

I force myself to hold his gaze, even as the urge to flee swirls inside me. His presence presses in on me, heavy, intoxicating.