Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  Why had Andros Ivanov been in Marion’s limousine?

  “You made it,” he gushed as he helped me from the back seat. “Nice work, Justin,” he said with a tip of his head to the driver.

  “Thank you, Mr. Elliott.”

  I didn’t notice the cold air on the sidewalk or even the warmth as we entered the club’s entrance. There was too much to comprehend.

  “Madeline?”

  I looked up at Marion’s wrinkled face, the way small lines formed at the sides of his eyes as he smiled. My head tilted. His eyes were blue. I hadn’t noticed them before. They weren’t the same as Patrick’s blue. Marion’s were pale in comparison.

  “Little lady, are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry. I believe I’m flustered.”

  “Of course you are. Your driver should be fired. This treatment of a beautiful woman is unacceptable and especially before the tournament. Tell me the service you hired, and I will have the man fired myself.”

  My head shook. “Marion, I’d rather not think about it.” I’d rather not think that Andros ordered Mitchell to leave Chicago, unconcerned that in the process he’d left me stranded. When I asked him why he sent Mitchell away, Andros said it wasn’t my concern.

  Nothing is my concern except winning, winning it all.

  When I asked why I hadn’t been informed and had been left stranded, he dismissed me as if I were a bothersome child seeking his attention.

  The truth was that I didn’t want his attention. I wanted to go back to Detroit and fade into the woodwork where I’d been. Though Andros hadn’t used the exact words, I had come to the realization years ago that I was nothing more than a plaything to Andros, a doll to be removed from the shelf, dusted off, and given a new layer of paint before showing me off to his friends and enemies. “Look what my doll can do. Watch her win the hands of poker. Watch as she does as I command.”

  “Madeline, let me help you with your coat,” Marion said. “We have a little time before the tournament. Perhaps a glass of wine will help calm your nerves?”

  I unfastened the large buttons on the front of my winter coat. As Marion reached to help me remove it, he let out a low hiss.

  “That dress,” he said.

  The smile returned. I had a job to do, and I needed to do as Andros had said and stay focused. “This?” I asked coyly. “I hope you like it.”

  “You’re stunning. How will I ever be able to concentrate on the cards?”

  “Maybe that’s my plan.”

  Marion laughed. “The rumors are correct.”

  “Rumors?” I asked.

  “As I said before, beautiful, mysterious, and lethal.”

  I placed my hand on his sleeve as he led me into Bar Regal.

  When the waitress approached, Marion ordered our drinks. “A glass of chardonnay for the lady and Glen Marnoch neat for me.”

  “Really,” I protested. “Water is all.”

  Marion winked her way. “Bring the lady both.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  “Marion, I must protest. Getting me tipsy before the tournament would affect my concentration.”

  “Perhaps, that is my plan. If you can make me and all the other players drunk with lust in that green dress that matches your emerald eyes, I can return the favor.”

  After the waitress delivered our drinks, Marion raised his glass. “A toast.”

  I lifted the glass of wine in kind. “To what should we toast?”

  “To each of our successes.” Our glasses clinked.

  “And don’t forget,” he said after a sip of his whiskey, “we have a table reserved for dinner.”

  “I’d like to reserve a seat near you at the poker table in tonight’s finals,” I said with a grin.

  “I’m not sure it’s done that way, but I believe we will both find ourselves there.”

  I leaned closer. “I have a secret.”

  “Oh? Little lady, do tell.”

  “I’m going to win it all.”

  The sharing of my secret earned me a hearty laugh.

  As I was about to take another drink, a man I recognized from the tournament approached our table. “Ms. Miller, Mr. Elliott, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Ethan Beckman. I will be overseeing today’s rounds of the tournament.”

  “Where is Ms. Standish?” Marion asked.

  Mr. Beckman’s expression changed for only a microsecond. “I haven’t seen her yet today and well, play must go on.” He turned to me. “Speaking of which, Ms. Miller, I’m relieved that you arrived.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t usually like to cut it so close.”

  He smiled. “It is all well now that you’re here.” He turned to Mr. Elliott and back to me. “If you two will join us, it’s time to begin today’s first round.” He looked at our drinks. “Leave them. We have plenty upstairs.”

  Once Mr. Beckman had walked away, Marion whispered. “I’m at the disadvantage.”

  “And why is that?”

  “You’re still wearing that magnificent dress, and you only took one sip of your wine. We can rectify that at dinner.”

  With my hand again on his arm, we made our way up the grand stairs. As we neared the top, a different set of blue eyes met mine. Unlike Marion’s, this set sent a spark to my skin, warming me inside and out. It would be so easy to remember what it was like to see those eyes every day.

  “Mr. Kelly,” Marion said. “Good luck in there today.”

  Patrick offered his hand and the two shook.

  “Have you met our gorgeous competitor, Ms. Miller?”

  Patrick’s gaze met mine as he again offered his hand.

  My breathing stilled. That was the same hand that had roamed my skin last night, the same fingers that had brought me pleasure and held tightly to my hips. I reached out.

  “Ms. Miller.”

  “Mr. Kelly.”

  I doubted that Marion noticed how my hand lingered in Patrick’s or observed the unspoken conversation, but by the way my heart raced and hand tingled from our connection, I was aware of everything about the encounter and more. I looked Patrick up and down, from the gleam in his eyes to the way his suit fit over his broad shoulders and wide chest. I recalled what it was like to lie in his embrace, to run my fingers over the indentations of his abdomen.

  I told myself it was simply the return of a childhood crush and that being in his presence had brought it back with a vengeance. It was the lie I repeated, knowing it could never be more. It wasn’t possible.

  Warmth crawled up my neck, no doubt bringing pink to my skin as I remembered what he said he’d be thinking when he saw me. Yes, Patrick, I was thinking the same thing, too.

  I retrieved my hand.

  “Lady and gentlemen,” Mr. Beckman called over our murmurs. “Please come inside. We’re ready to begin seat selection.”

  “Good luck, gentlemen,” I said as I stepped away, entering the hall alone.

  I needed the break.

  It was time to concentrate.

  Eighteen of us stood as names were drawn, one by one filling the chairs at the three remaining tables. A gallery of additional chairs had been set up where other tables had once been. No longer did our observers need to stand. The tournament was more than a game for those of us playing. We were now on display, the entertainment for members of the club.

  “Ms. Madeline Miller,” the announcer said.

  Smiling, I made my way toward the middle table. Marion had already been seated at the first table, along with Mr. Garcia and four other players.

  “Mr. Antonio Hillman.”

  I nodded to the man taking the seat to my left. As I did, I noticed Patrick, still standing. It seemed as though something about this placement had Patrick’s attention.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Miller,” Mr. Hillman said with a smile.

  My head tilted. “Have we met?” He seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Only crossed paths.”

  I hummed.
r />   “Last night you were seated at a table near me,” he clarified.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m sure that’s it. Good luck, Mr. Hillman.”

  “Please, Antonio.”

  “Then call me Madeline.”

  When I looked around, all players were seated. Patrick was at the last table with his five other opponents. Truly, at this stage all the players were our opponents. We had until four o’clock to win enough to earn a seat at the final table.

  “Shall we begin?” our dealer asked.

  Patrick

  I was in fucking hell, trapped like a performer on a stage, unable to do what I did—investigate and help. And by the way Mason was texting on his phone, I knew more was happening, more than Veronica Standish and the missing fifteen million. And that was a lot. On top of that, Hillman had been seated beside Madeline. I couldn’t see how their hands of poker were going or updates on my phone. All I could see were the cards.

  “GO ALL IN. WIN IT ALL.”

  No pressure.

  “Mr. Kelly,” our dealer said, “the bet’s to you. The call is fifteen.”

  I was tired of the meager bets. Three of my opponents placed in lower earnings than I had in the last round. The other two had placed higher. Because placement was based on winnings per round, not accumulated earnings, I hadn’t known exactly what I’d be up against. I did know that I placed tenth and I needed to move up to the top six.

  My cards were shit—A, J, J, 6, 4. We still had the draw and it was time to take matters into my own hands. “I see your $15,000, and raise another twenty-five.”

  Murmurs came from my opponents as well as some of the people watching.

  What did they know?

  They couldn’t see my cards.

  “That is forty to you...” the dealer said as he went around the table.

  With one fold, play continued with five players.

  My opponents had taken anything from one card to the maximum of three.

  “Mr. Kelly?”

  Handing over the 6 and 4, facedown, I collected two more cards. I wasn’t a big fan of holding a kicker, but it was difficult with a hand like the one I held to throw away an ace.

  I peeled back the corner of the first card.

  10.

  Shit.

  “Mr. Kelly, it’s your bet.”

  I didn’t speak as I peeled back the corner of the second card.

  Ace.

  I looked up to the anticipation of my opponents. Counting out five stacks, I pushed them forward. “Fifty.”

  “The bet is $50,000,” the dealer repeated.

  My first opponent folded. The second took his time before throwing in his cards. It was the third, Mr. Julius Dunn, who continued play. From Reid and Mason’s research, I’d learned Dunn was little more than a playboy, the jet-set type with the perpetual tan—even in Chicago in January—and the whiter-than-white smile.

  “What the hell,” Mr. Dunn said as he pushed $50,000 in chips forward. “And I raise you ten.”

  The last opponent folded.

  I added ten more to the pot.

  It was the responsibility of the last person who bet or raised to show his cards. That meant that with his $10,000 raise, Mr. Dunn had put himself in the spotlight, a place I’d decided he enjoyed.

  “Mr. Dunn,” the dealer said.

  Mr. Dunn’s million-dollar smile grew. “Two pair.”

  I nodded.

  He turned over two jacks.

  I didn’t need to respond. I didn’t even need to show my cards, not if I wasn’t claiming victory. However, this was more. I needed to show the world I didn’t bluff. I turned over my pair of jacks. “Go on,” I said.

  At the appearance of my pair of jacks, the wattage of Mr. Dunn’s smile dimmed a bit.

  “Your other pair, Mr. Dunn?” the dealer asked.

  He turned over his three remaining cards—8, 8, A. “Just in case you planned on replicating my pair of eights, too,” he said.

  “I wasn’t.” I flipped over my pair of aces.

  The crowd aahed.

  With a nod, I raked in the pot. In one hand I’d accumulated over $200,000.

  Yes, that was the way it was supposed to work.

  As the dealer shuffled our deck, the crowd again aahed. I looked up in time to watch as Madeline pulled a large pile of chips her direction.

  Cash out.

  It was my first thought, and then I remembered Sparrow’s text. Madeline cashing out would cost the Sparrow outfit. He’d want her to lose it all.

  No matter what was happening, I didn’t want that.

  More hands came and went. I won and I lost. Glancing at my watch, I saw that we had less than a half hour of play remaining. My table was down to four players. We’d lost two through normal attrition. They’d bet all they could and lost.

  That possibility was why this was called gambling.

  While the victories moved around the table, the tall stacks belonged to me and Mr. Dunn.

  Finally, the call came from the announcer. “Lady and gentlemen, this hand concludes this session’s play.”

  I looked around, wondering where Beckman was, but I couldn’t locate him.

  The dealer lifted his hands. He’d been shuffling. That meant our table was done.

  I waited impatiently while our chips were counted and the amounts were verified. Two players had left earlier with nothing. From the looks of the stacks, another two from my table would not make the next round. Each appeared to have less than $50,000. Those were payouts that wouldn’t cause Sparrow to balk. Under normal circumstances, it would be a fraction of the taxes paid.

  These weren’t normal circumstances.

  My gaze met Mason’s. Wordlessly, I asked if cash had been restored to the safe. It would be needed as the non-advancing players cashed out.

  He nodded.

  “Mr. Kelly,” the dealer said, handing me my receipt.

  I read the total. It wasn’t a shock. I’d been keeping track.

  $2,600,000

  Minus the players who had already stepped away from their table, the rest of us remained seated as the room grew deadly quiet. The man who had announced the end of play collected the totals.

  I’d begun the round with $350,000. That meant I’d earned $2,250,000. It better be enough.

  “We will begin with our sixth addition to the final round.”

  The room took a collective breath.

  “Mr. Nicholas Garcia.”

  The room filled with applause.

  “Mr. Julius Dunn.”

  More applause.

  “Ms. Madeline Miller.”

  My eyes closed as the crowd applauded. Damn, this would be easier if she could just cash out.

  “Mr. Antonio Hillman.”

  My gaze went to Mason’s. His stare was set on Hillman, and if I were to guess, he wasn’t happy.

  “Mr. Patrick Kelly.”

  I nodded as I too received applause.

  The final name was expected, but then again, nothing was certain.

  “Mr. Marion Elliott.”

  The applause gave way to voices, everyone talking.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, now speaking to the entirety of the room, “we will resume play at seven o’clock sharp. Once the doors close they will not reopen until the play is complete.”

  Taking my receipt, I placed it in my inside jacket pocket as I stood. While I searched for Madeline, Mason appeared at my side.

  “Come with me. It’s a shit show.”

  Madeline

  A tall and intimidating-looking man with a short ponytail near his neck hurried to Patrick’s side after the finalists had been announced. There was something about the man that made me nervous, worrying that Patrick was somehow in danger.

  “Congratulations,” Antonio said as he started to stand. “May I buy you a drink?”

  “The lady’s with me.”

  I didn’t need to turn. I recognized the drawl.

  I forced a smile. �
�It’s not a big club. I’m sure we’ll see one another,” I said to Antonio. “Marion and I do have plans for dinner.”

  Antonio nodded. Standing, he offered Marion his hand. “It’s nice to have your backing.”

  “I like to help when I can,” Marion said as they shook.

  My gaze went from one to the other. I had the feeling I was back in Detroit as Andros conducted a secret meeting in my presence. Deals were made. Favors granted. Hands greased. Assets were acquired, yet it all happened on an alternative plane, just outside the obvious.

  When Antonio walked away, I asked, “So you know him?”

  “We’ve met.” His eyes shone. “Let’s go downstairs and have dinner. Winning always makes me hungry.”

  “Where have you met?”

  We were now walking toward the stairs. As we did, I searched about looking for Patrick, but he was out of sight, not out of mind.

  “It’s very boring,” Marion said. “Tell me about your wins. From eighth place to fourth is impressive.”

  “Thank you. Don’t sell yourself short. Maintaining first is no easy feat.” I peered down the hall toward the bathrooms where I’d first seen Patrick. It was only a few days before, but it seemed much longer.

  In reality it was—a lifetime.

  A few days ago wasn’t the first time I saw him. That was nearly twenty years ago. I stilled. “Marion, if you’ll excuse me for a moment. I will be happy to meet you downstairs.”

  “I’ll wait right here,” he said. “They will hold our table.”

  With a nod, I turned toward the hallway. Being a Saturday, there were more rooms in use than there had been on Thursday. I slowed at the sound of voices. The door was closed, yet there was a heated discussion happening within. No, it wasn’t a discussion. It sounded as if someone was being questioned. Curiosity slowed my steps, yet I didn’t recognize the voices.

  They were saying something about a woman. I heard the name Veronica.

  Veronica Standish?

  She hadn’t been in the tournament.

  What was happening?

  During our ride, Andros assured me that as long as I did my job, a car would pick me up after the tournament. My room was being packed and we were headed back to Detroit. While I would like to see Patrick one more time, it wouldn’t be.