5

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. Fuck! 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. “Damn, 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.” “One hell of a 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 the countless gazes 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 hold his gaze unflinchingly despite his threatening demeanor and the urge to run from him. Most people, after a few seconds, always look away. One way to make them look away is to stare at their forehead, especially in a place like this. Anyone rarely holds your gaze long, but he holds mine hostage, almost daring me to buckle under the weight of his. “If you’ll excuse me, sir?” I murmur, but he doesn’t move. He tilts his head to the side, unblinking. His thumb trails slowly over my pulse point. “Do I scare you?” he asks curiously. “Your pulse is beating rapidly beneath my hand.” “No, sir. I am eager to go on my break,” I tell him. He chuckles, leaning in. “Now that’s a lie, but I bet even lies taste sweet rolling off your tongue,” he whispers before letting me go and walking off.