“Watch yourself.”
“Go make a phone call. Say goodbye to your unfortunate wife—my favor will make her a widow.” I forced a chuckle as I eyed him up and down. “Hell, she’ll probably thank me.”
Mitchell bristled as he took a step back. “Doing my job, Ms. Miller. Watching you. Watching the boss’s money.”
“Glorified babysitter. Such a high-ranking job. Your momma must be proud.” When Mitchell didn’t respond, I continued. “You’re watching me, then fucking watch.” I pointed his direction, emphasizing my words. “You have put your hands on me for the last time. Do it again and I won’t wait for Andros. I’ll kill you myself.”
With my last word, I stepped to the side and with a turn, disappeared into the ladies’ bathroom. As the door successfully shut, I let out a long breath. Closing my eyes, I collapsed against the cool tile wall.
Mitchell was right about Andros’s expectations.
Failure wasn’t an option. The stakes were too high.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped to the mirror. Trailing my fingertips over my neck I lifted my chin and inspected the now-sensitive flesh.
“Stupid animal,” I muttered as I opened my purse and removed a small compact. A few dabs of powdered concealer and the red marks created by Mitchell’s attempt at intimidation were disguised. Experience told me that the tenderness wouldn’t be as easily hidden. I excelled at many things. Life was a brutal teacher. Hiding bruises was child’s play, an elementary education. If life were a university, I would have PhD after my name.
Leaning forward, I ran another fingertip over my left cheek. The color beneath the layers of concealer and foundation was green to pale yellow. In other words, that bruise beneath was mostly healed. That beauty hadn’t come from Mitchell but Andros himself, a reminder of who was in charge, who held my secrets, and who made decisions. After so many years outside of Chicago, I’d made the mistake of replying with honesty when he’d informed me of this job.
I didn’t want to be here.
I would go anywhere else.
My finger skirted my bruised cheek.
I lowered my voice. “Fuckers. I’m biding my time. It won’t be long until I will take what is mine and walk away.”
My sentiment wasn’t a child’s wish for a new life such as the fairy tales and lies I was told before my family was taken from me. I knew that a knight on a white horse didn’t exist and waiting for Prince Charming was a waste of time.
The only person who would save me was me.
One day I would.
I straightened my shoulders and stared into my own eyes.
Today wasn’t the day. It wasn’t a risk worth taking.
My priorities were set in stone.
Some things were worth a life sentence. I’d serve it. Nevertheless, I maintained hope for eventual parole. Forcing a smile in the mirror, I told myself it would come with either good behavior or really bad. Freedom earned or freedom stolen. I didn’t care.
Andros owned my secrets but thankfully, not my heart. For the last five or more years, my body had also been out of his grasp. The kingpin of the Ivanov bratva—the Russian brotherhood—and I had come to a mutual understanding.
My stomach twisted.
Despite that agreement, I was still his, making me untouchable by the others in the bratva. At the same time, he was free to do as he desired with other women. Truthfully, I believed he grew bored of me yet refused to relinquish what he’d obtained. The new arrangement was the best one yet. However, as in all arrangement negotiations, everything could change on a dime. With Andros and the Ivanov bratva, a dime was a valueless example.
A kilo of cocaine.
A shipment of methamphetamine, heroin, or the newest street favorite, oxycodone.
A million-dollar payment.
An illegal shipment of guns.
The Ivanov world was located on the border of Canada, within the city of Detroit. Possibilities were endless. The shipping lanes in and out of the country were the gateway to wealth and power.
Lifting my chin in the mirror, I let out a breath and stared into my own green gaze.
Tonight I would concentrate on the next hour of poker, and then I could rest.
Opening the door to the hallway, my feet stilled as I gasped.
The view before me I’d last seen in my dreams.
I reached forward. Under my touch was a beating heart, its warmth radiating heat like flames from a campfire.
Shit.
This wasn’t a dream or a ghost.
Patrick
Her green eyes opened wide and her steps stuttered as her delicate hand came to my chest. The touch instantly combusted, flaring from sparks to flames. Madeline too must have felt it, for just as quickly, she pulled her hand away.
My tone lowered. “Mrs. Kelly, it’s been a while. Welcome back to Chicago.”
Madeline’s chin rose. “That’s not my name. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else.”
Her visceral reaction didn’t match her verbal response. Madeline was a gambler, but when she saw me, her mask shattered. Despite her attempt to appear indifferent, her body was giving her away. Her quickening breaths, parting lips, and flaring nostrils were but a few of the giveaways.
God, she was stunning.
There was no doubt in my mind.
It may have been seventeen years since I last laid eyes upon her, but I knew the only woman to take my name and my heart.
I wasn’t wrong.
My body knew it as much as my mind.
A small grin came to my lips as I took her in, scanning from her shiny black hair all the way to her high-heeled shoes. No longer a child, Madeline Kelly was everything I remembered and more. Standing like the queen I’d always thought her to be, her shoulders were back and her neck was straight. The seductive scent of her perfume floated around her in a subtle cloud. Like the countryside after a rain, it brought me images of flowers near a cottage. Her dress was luxurious, possibly a designer original, and the way it accentuated her breasts made me want to rip it from her curves. The shoes upon her feet were no doubt high-end. Diamonds dripped from her ears and she was wearing more makeup than I preferred. Nevertheless, under the expensive wrapping, she was definitely the woman I remembered.
She was my wife.
As the mounting silence magnified around us, the need to reconfirm that this woman was flesh and blood and not an apparition created in my mind was intensifying by the minute. My hand itched to reach out. If her one-millisecond touch had surged like it had, doing more would be my downfall.
Being here with her was surreal, a dream or maybe a nightmare.
It was time to figure out which.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, breaking the silence as her eyes darted down the length of the hallway.
Unable to stop myself, I reached for her hand.
Such as it had been a moment earlier, the connection was instantaneous—like a jolt of electricity, it energized my dead heart. From the look in her eyes, I knew Madeline felt it too. They were staring up at me, swirling with emotion. My finger went to her wrist. With one touch I felt her pulse. Similar to the one thundering through my veins, hers too was thumping too fast.
I tugged her forward, out into the empty hallway. “Don’t worry, Madeline, we won’t be disturbed if that’s your concern.” I shrugged. “Your friend is preoccupied.”
She pulled her hand away, more than likely aware that our connection was one of her tells. Her profession made her wary, unwilling to show her cards.
As for her friend—the big man—I’d reached this hallway too late to intervene. And while I wasn’t certain of all that had occurred, my gut told me that he might be a problem. A quick word to a friend, and the large man who had been talking with Madeline was now on the ground floor as his references for entry were being questioned. Depending upon his answers, reentry to this floor or maybe the club may be refused.
“My friend?” she asked. “My concern?” Her head shook
as her long hair swayed like a black veil over her bare shoulders and down her back. “He’s not a friend and my concern is the poker tournament. You’ll have to excuse me now. I have more hands to play.”
“You’re mistaken. I don’t have to do anything, especially excusing you from my sight. You are the one who came back to Chicago. Didn’t you think it would be appropriate to alert your husband?”
“I’m not married.”
“But you are, Maddie. You’re married to me.”
A smile graced her painted lips yet didn’t make it to her emerald eyes. While the expression usually displayed pleasure, on her I saw sadness. “Maddie,” she said wistfully. “No one calls me that, not anymore.”
“My Maddie girl, our marriage was never dissolved. We were never divorced. Any other marriages that may have since occurred would be considered polygamy and most likely, give me license to murder.”
Her eyes opened wide at my final comment before she replied, “There have been no others. No need for murder.”
I wasn’t certain about murder. It hadn’t been ruled out. Nevertheless, I concentrated on her first sentence as I felt my cheeks rise. “No others...only one.”
She let out an exaggerated breath. “Yes. But we both know it wasn’t real. You know that. I know that. Sixteen years confirms that.”
“Seventeen, Maddie,” I corrected. “Seventeen. It was a cold winter day, just like today.” I tried to recall. “Hell, it was January. We signed the license and promised forever before a judge. Real is a subjective qualifier. Legal isn’t. Our marriage was as legal as if we’d said the words in a church. We missed celebrating our anniversary by a few weeks.”
“All of them,” she replied. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t think about any of this. I need to get back to the tournament.”
My neck straightened. “And I need answers.”
“You deserve them,” she said. “You do. But quite honestly, I don’t have any that are sufficient.” She again lifted her petite hand to my chest. “You were a good man, Patrick Kelly. My name is now Miller. The girl you married never existed.”
I’d married Madeline Tate. She may have ceased to exist, but she was obviously still alive.
Looking down at her hand, I took in her empty ring finger. Covering her hand with mine, I marveled, if for only a moment, at the reality of her presence. “Do you feel it?” I asked.
Her chin rose until our gazes met. Beyond the expensive wrapping I saw the woman I’d married. She was buried beneath years of something I couldn’t identify, but in the sparkle of her green eyes, I saw her.
“Feel what?” she asked.
“My heart.”
She tried to pull her hand away, but I wouldn’t release it.
“Patrick, I’m—”
“No,” my tone lowered as I shook my head and leaned closer. “You fucking broke it the day you disappeared. Shattered it into a million pieces. Now you’re back from the dead. I don’t give a fuck about anything that has happened in the last seventeen years. Having you here right now...” My mind and body were at odds at having her close. “It makes me...” I didn’t finish the sentence.
“What?” she asked. “It makes you what?
“I don’t know. I either want to kill you or fuck you. I suppose the jury is still out.”
Madeline let out a small feigned laugh. “You always have been brutally honest.”
“I’m honest. My wife is right here and my intentions are unclear. I don’t know what happened and why you left. I searched and searched. No one had answers. The only assumption I could make was that you were deceased. And yet here you are.”
“And soon I’ll be gone again,” she said.
“To where?”
“To where I belong.”
She retrieved the hand I’d held captive. “I must get back to the tournament. If I don’t, I won’t make the cut for tomorrow.”
I took a step back. “Tonight, after the tournament, we will see one another again. That isn’t a request.”
“It would be better—”
“You yourself said that you owe me.”
Her face tilted. “Perhaps I should know your intentions. Are you planning to kill me or fuck me?”
As I’d said, the jury was out. I’d never wanted both so badly in my whole life. Instead of answering, I asked, “Where are you staying?”
“You didn’t answer my question.” When I didn’t respond, Madeline opened her purse and handed me a keycard. “Palmer House.”
The white card had the hotel’s emblem, but nothing else. “Room number?” I asked.
“Find me and then we can decide what the night will bring.”
Madeline
As the final hand ended, I scooped in the winnings and took inventory of my chips. At the end of play, I was down close to ten grand. And despite my mind being all kinds of mixed up, down ten meant I’d recovered $20,000 since seeing Patrick. It should be enough to guarantee my return to play tomorrow night.
The dealers were making their final count of wins and losses. The entire room waited with bated breath for the names of those who advanced to be announced.
Forty-two players began play earlier in the evening.
Twelve players would be eliminated.
It couldn’t be me.
By my estimation I’d made a healthy recovery, bringing my holdings back to near forty grand. I couldn’t be certain of the other tables and had purposely tried to stay in the middle of the rankings. Too high or too low would bring more attention. That was never my goal.
I believed once it was all said and done, I’d end up in the top eighteen to twenty-second seating. Of course, a miscalculation could place me a bit lower. I fought the onset of nerves, convincing myself that I was mostly confident I’d made the advancing thirty. The truth was that I was as confident as I could be since sighting Patrick—since that meeting, I was unsure of most everything.
Making the cut wasn’t an option. I had to be there.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer spoke as the room quieted, “while it’s unusual, we have received word of a buy-in for the continuation of the tournament. Mr. Hillman, Mr. Antonio Hillman, was unable to attend tonight. His contribution secured his seat for tomorrow. With him in thirtieth position, we will now announce the other twenty-nine players in ascending order.”
The room around me filled with gasps of disbelief as we looked to one another, shaking our heads and pursing our lips. While it was true that we’d all bought our way into the tournament, it wasn’t for the second round.
Hillman.
I wasn’t sure why the name was familiar.
I recognized it, but for some reason I didn’t think it was from poker.
Then why would it sound familiar?
My neck straightened and skin prickled as I waited to hear my name.
The announcer began with the top ranking: Marion Elliott. The room broke out into applause. While I played the role, clapping my hands and smiling, my empty stomach twisted, churning the bile that comes without eating. If I were to win the jackpot, I would need to face him. The prospect terrified me like no other player.
I couldn’t let myself think that way.
Fucking with people’s minds before the first card was dealt was the sign of a true champion.
Two, three, and four, the names continued to be announced. As we all waited, I made eye contact with Mitchell. My bodyguard-slash-babysitter was standing along the far wall with a glass of bourbon in his hand and my winter coat draped over his arm. I wasn’t certain where he’d been, but at least he was back.
“Nineteen: Madeline Miller.”
I let out a breath and gazed at Mitchell who nodded.
Antonio Hillman was announced at number thirty. He’d bought his way to the bottom of the rankings. I scoured the room wondering who had metaphorically paid the price for his entry.
Who was cut because of his buy-in?
The room was beginning to empty. If I wanted a visible
reaction from one or more of the players, I was watching the wrong crowd. Poker players on this level knew how to hide their true feelings.
Tucking the receipt for my chips into my handbag, I began to stand. As I did, Mitchell came my way and helped me with my chair. “I will escort you to your hotel room. Then I need to do some work for the boss. There are a few things he wants me to check out.” Once I stood, Mitchell offered me my coat and added, “You’re fucking lucky you made the cut.”
My head shook. “Thank you, Mitchell, for your vote of confidence.” My eyebrows lifted. “And for your information, it wasn’t luck. The word is skill.” I tilted my head. “Where have you been?”
“None of your concern.”
Together we walked down the grand stairs.
My steps stuttered when I saw Marion Elliott standing at the bottom of the staircase, his hand on the banister and a grin on his wrinkled face. Heat filled my cheeks. Surely he wasn’t waiting for me.
“Ms. Miller,” he said, his Texas drawl coating the greeting in sweet molasses.
Mitchell’s dark eyes came my way, but my attention went to the man who’d just addressed me. “Mr. Elliott.”
He offered me his hand for the last step. “Please, call me Marion.” He bent gallantly at the waist and lightly kissed the knuckles of my hand in his grasp.
Retrieving my hand, I nodded. “Marion, it’s very nice to finally meet you. I’m Madeline.”
“My dear, of course I know who you are. I was elated to see your name on the lineup.”
“You flatter me,” I said. “Honestly, I’m surprised you know of me.”
Mitchell respectively took a few steps away, allowing Marion and I a moment to talk.
“You are very well known,” Marion replied. “Beautiful, mysterious, and lethal.”
My head tilted. “An interesting description.”
Marion gestured toward the bar. “I was hoping I could entice you to have a drink with me this evening.”
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