Page 9 of Brutal Union
“Where are your manners?” he chides. He turns to me as I escape the brief moment of shock. “You should always let a woman this gorgeous in, no search necessary.”
His eyes crawl over my skin, as he slides his tongue over the plump pink of his lips. The guy has shaggy blonde hair, bright brown eyes, broad shoulders and tan skin that screams Italian. If I didn’t have a serious mission I would ask this guy to direct me to the nearest restroom and let him know the feeling is mutual, but I can’t, not when Sho could be anywhere.
I flutter my eyelashes up looking up into his eyes with a wicked smirk. “Back at ya’ handsome.”
I move past both of the guys, rubbing my hip into the growing hard-on of the handsome blonde guy, as I make my way into the club.
It is illegal to gamble in Japan, but like most illegal things, if there is a market then there is an underground market for it. The club pulses with low neon lights and deep bass, the scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke clinging to the air like a second skin. I slip through the crowd, my body weaving between men in crisp suits and women draped in silk and sin. The underground gambling den is hidden beneath the illusion of an upscale bar—on the surface, it’s a place to drink, to dance, to forget. But below, past the velvet ropes and behind the mirrored doors, is where the real game begins.
I don’t need to ask for directions. I know exactly where Sho would be.
A man like him—cold, calculating, with enough charm to convince a snake to shed its skin—would never linger in the open. He’d be down in the VIP lounge, where the air is thick withsmoke and secrets, where power shifts hands with the flick of a wrist and the turn of a card.
And while I’d usually push my breasts up a little higher in my dress and toss my long blonde hair over one shoulder to sweet-talk my way inside, the way the security guy’s lips curl as he checks out a man half his size tells me that cleavage isn’t the currency he deals in.
The mirrored doors swing open, and I step into the heart of the casino like I own it. Because, in a way, I do. The air is thick with sweat, smoke, and desperation—the scent of men who think luck is something they can buy.
Dice clatter against velvet, cards flick through practiced fingers, and glasses of whiskey sweat under the heat of bad decisions. Men in suits lean over tables, their confidence as fragile as their bankrolls, while women drape themselves over the winners, their smiles as expensive as their dresses.
I don’t bother trying to fit in, even in a room full of gorgeous women, some eyes drift to the curve of my hips, or my plunging neckline that fits the black tie dress code. A man with a potbelly licks his lips and mouths to mebeautiful, but all I want to do is cut his tongue out. This dress is for one guy, and it doesn’t even look like he is here.
I decide on the Craps table because it is one of the only gambling games I have ever played. There really isn’t any time to gamble when you are killing enemies, trying to figure out why your father killed your mother, and then becoming queen of a Mafia.
I sidle up to the table, slipping into an open spot beside a man whose gold watch gleams under the chandelier’s soft glow. The dealer eyes me as I purchase a stack of chips, but it’s notsuspicion—it’s curiosity. I flash him a slow smile and place my bet, letting the dice tumble across the felt.
They land in my favor.
A low whistle comes from my left. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve got a natural.”
I turn to find the blonde from the entrance, now lounging beside me with an easy grin and a whiskey glass dangling between his fingers. His brown eyes gleam under the lights, sharp but amused.
“Beginner’s luck,” I say, rolling the dice between my fingers.
“Nah,” he drawls, watching as I toss them again—another win. “That’s all me, sweetheart. I’m your lucky charm.”
I arch a brow, biting back a laugh. “That so?”
He nods, taking a slow sip of his drink before offering his hand. “Calvin Barnes. But everyone calls me Barney.”
That does make me laugh, sharp and unrestrained. “Barney?” I repeat, tilting my head. “Like the purple dinosaur?”
His grin doesn’t falter, but his eyes narrow just slightly. “Like the guy who just made you rich,” he counters.
I stack my winnings and smirk. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. “Come on doll, just roll it again.”
His fingers curve around my wrist, and I stare into the golden hue of his eyes as the dice tumbles across my fingertips, and onto the table.
The dice spill across the table, bouncing once, twice—before landing in my favor. Again.
A chorus of groans and muttered curses ripple around the table, but Barney only laughs, low and smooth, as his fingers brush my wrist once more. “See, doll? Told ya. I’m your lucky charm.”
I drag my fingers along the edge of my winnings, smirking. “Or maybe I don’t need luck. Maybe I was already winning, and you just showed up to watch.”
He presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Damn. Tough crowd.”
I roll the dice between my fingers again, but before I can throw, a shadow falls over the table.
