Chapter Twelve

CARY TUGGED NERVOUSLY at the crisp white collar of his uniform shirt and glanced at himself in the mirror behind the corner bar. It’s going to be all right, he told his reflection silently. It’s just another performance. Just another feat of sleight of hand. Only this time, the audience was a murderous psychopath who had no idea he was square in the middle of a magic show.

He straightened his bow tie one last time and turned to face the room. As private gaming rooms went, this was as private as one could wish for. It was decorated extravagantly, like everything else, in red, cream, and gold, and there was only one poker table with six chairs around it. Aside from the wet bar, there was a large flat-screen TV on one of the walls, a lounge area, and an en suite bathroom—in short, everything needed for a few uninterrupted hours of high-stakes gambling.

Cary’s job as a private-room bartender meant he had to be as unobtrusive as possible, and so far, that worked to his advantage. He’d spent all morning practicing mixing drinks and was reasonably confident he could handle the players’ requests. So, as long as he stayed quiet and served the men promptly, he could watch them without anyone looking at him twice. That included the casino dealer, who must have known Cary wasn’t an employee, but said nothing. Cary assumed money had changed hands there as well, but he could hardly ask the guy if he’d been bribed to let him slide. Cary knew that no amount of money would convince a professional dealer to cheat in a camera-monitored, casino-endorsed game with such heavy rollers. The cheating was Sebastian Monroe’s job, if such need arose.

To be perfectly honest, Cary’d had doubts that particular part of the plan would work. There was no shortage of people with money at the casino, and most of them were willing to lose said money just for the thrill of it. That Giordano would latch on to Bas, out of all these potential cash cows, was rather dubious, but Cary couldn’t argue with results. Whether it was skill, natural charm, magic, or a strange combination of all of the above, Sebastian had gotten in.

Aside from the dealer, there were five more people in the room, seated around the table. Tony Giordano, with his slick hair and toothy smile, reminded him of a particularly handsome reptile. The chair on his right remained empty. Cary watched him closely at first, careful to avoid eye contact and looking away every time the man glanced in his general direction. But despite his apprehension, Tony didn’t show any signs of recognizing him.

There was actually a greater chance of Angelo Rossi, Tony’s right-hand man, recognizing Cary. Rossi was a medium-height, nondescript fellow with thick dark hair, sharp eyes, and a superficial resemblance to Giordano that spoke of a familial connection. According to Ty’s briefing, he was the one who handled Tony’s more questionable enterprises, so there was a better chance of him knowing Cary by sight. But he gave Cary no more than a cursory glance when calling for his whiskey, and after that, he ignored him altogether. Cary noticed he and Frank Biagi, Giordano’s rival “pal” from New York, were eying each other like two male tigers suddenly forced to share a cage. Clearly no love was lost there, but Tony seemed unperturbed by the palpable animosity. Cary wondered what was going on there, but it was hardly important at the moment.

Gladden, the arms company consultant, wasn’t unlike Tony in that he was attractive and slippery. But whereas Tony commanded the room with a genuine intensity, despite his relatively young age and well-groomed appearance, this guy was as fake as loaded dice. He chatted easily and fluidly, all the while wearing a big smile that showed rows of white teeth that looked a little too perfect.

It might seem that somebody like Sebastian would be the odd man out in this company. Perhaps he was, in the participants’ minds, but it certainly didn’t look like it from the outside. Sebastian was holding his cards with all the suave elegance of a bored modern-day aristocrat seeking expensive thrills, like he wasn’t bothered by the proximity of all these dangerous people and their bodyguards waiting outside.

The news of Monroe being invited to Giordano’s little shindig came in late last night. Cary and Ty had just returned to their room from their recon tour of the casino. Both of them were in a strangely dark mood, with Cary having no idea what it was Ty wanted to talk to him about (but judging by the grim set of his mouth, it was nothing good). Frankly, Cary didn’t need any extraneous relationship talk, or whatever it was Ty had planned to set the record straight between them. They were partners—in crime, but with benefits, as it happened. He knew there was nothing more, even if the thought grated. Under different circumstances he would have liked to get to know Ty better, to have more than a glimpse of the complex layers beneath the tough-guy exterior, the unexpected gentleness mixed with often ruthless efficiency. Cary had never had that easy connection before, with anyone.

And it looked like he would never have it again. Because falling for someone who’d robbed you (and was most likely planning on doing it again) was too stupid to let happen more than once.

In any case, he didn’t get to hear any pained explanations, because the second Ty opened his mouth, Sebastian came bursting into their suite, announcing his future engagement with a triumphant laugh, and then they were too busy setting up the audio equipment for tomorrow to have any meaningful conversation. Which had probably been for the best anyway.

As if sensing Cary’s gaze on him, Bas looked up and winked at him conspiratorially before snapping his fingers. “A daiquiri, if you please.”

Cary busied himself with preparing the drink. It probably wasn’t going to be the best daiquiri in the world, but that was Sebastian’s fault for not asking for something more straightforward—preferably something Cary could pour straight out of the bottle. Still, he was doing his best to appear as professional as possible, though no one was paying him any particular attention. The focus was all on the game. These were the early stages, when the players got a feel for each other’s idiosyncrasies, so the bets were still relatively low. From watching on the sidelines, Cary could already tell Gladden was going to fold early on most rounds, while Rossi and Biagi would battle it out. Tony was more difficult to read, and he probably had very different goals in mind. For him, a much larger game was afoot. But for some reason, the sorceress Ty had been so worried about helping Tony was absent.

“How’s that condominium going, Frank?” Giordano asked after taking a peek at his freshly dealt cards and throwing a couple of chips on the table.

Biagi stopped glaring at his opponent for a moment as he launched into an account of his newest investment in a large condominium being built somewhere on the east side of Manhattan, and the expected revenue. The other players listened politely.

“The excitement must keep you up at night,” Rossi observed after Biagi mentioned two-year interest rates. Gladden laughed a bit too loudly, but Biagi didn’t look amused. Sebastian said nothing, his light blue eyes flicking between the two men, and then focusing on the pot.

“Now, now, gentlemen, there’s no need for that,” Tony said in the indulgent tones of a parent chiding a naughty toddler, and just like that, the rising tension was gone. It wasn’t even deference—it was as if the little display of mutual attitude had never happened. The men smiled at each other genially and raised the stakes by another ten thousand.

Cary blinked. If there ever had been doubts regarding the authenticity of the amulet Tony now had in his possession, that demonstration had effectively silenced them. Apparently, Ty had been correct about Cary not using the thing to its full potential. If its power was enough to turn a room full of gangsters into a church ladies’ knitting circle, it could probably do anything.

As he brought Sebastian his drink with a polite but meaningless smile, Cary strained to catch a glimpse of the amulet, or at least get an indication of where Tony was keeping it. The thing was pretty conspicuous, and if he were wearing it around his neck, Cary would have quite a challenge ahead of him. But he couldn’t see any sign of a chain. Most likely, Tony was keeping it in his breast pocket, where it would be close enough to touch, but wouldn’t come into direct contact with his skin. It seemed even a mobster was smarter than Cary when it came to using magical artifacts.

As he looked over the card table, Cary noted the array of jewelry. None of these men were strangers to bling when it came to gold and diamond pinky rings and signets, but Tony was wearing only a simple gold band on his ring finger. Since he wasn’t married, Cary assumed it was the ring Tony had also taken from Ty. It didn’t look like much, but he already knew enough not to trust appearances. As Ty had predicted, Giordano was wearing it, and that meant Bas couldn’t touch him with magic in any way. He and Cary were entirely on their own in their respective roles, aside from Ty listening in through the tiny mic Cary was wearing under his shirt. It felt a little like being part of a law enforcement undercover operation, except there was no chance in hell he’d ever be a part of a police sting. In any case, he hoped Ty could hear everything from his makeshift control center in their suite, because without an earpiece, there was no reverse communications channel.

“I fold,” Gladden announced, not unsurprisingly. He was hardly betting his own money, but he wasn’t one for daring moves. Certainly not when the pot held more than a hundred thousand dollars in chips.

“Looks like a good call,” Tony said without batting an eyelash. He took a sip of his scotch and put the tumbler down on the raised table edge.

There was a pause as the other men let his words sink in. Even without looking at the cards, Cary could tell which of them had a good hand—Biagi and Sebastian. He wasn’t a card shark by any means, but he could recognize the behavior of a confident opponent.

“I’m out,” Rossi said readily and threw his cards on the table. A second later, Biagi followed suit. Sebastian was the last to fold. Cary hoped this was because he was playing along, and not because he too was affected by the amulet’s magic, but it was difficult to tell. Giordano laid his cards on the table neatly, displaying a straight.

Even the dealer looked a little shocked by this development, and there was a long pause before he dealt the cards again, as if unsure whether he should proceed. However, none of the players seemed unhappy with the situation. In fact, they now hung on to Tony’s every word and laughed at his witticisms as the evening progressed.

As far as Cary could tell, Giordano didn’t influence the course of the game after that one incident, but his little experiments didn’t stop at that. He let tensions run high, fueling Rossi’s and Biagi’s squabbling with casual remarks, and then quelling them with a smile, or a soothing word that in other circumstances might have infuriated the men even more. He was using the room as a test ground of sorts, and so far, it was all working. Cary recognized a con when he saw one, and this had all the classic signs of a mind trick, sans the actual trick. The magic was real, but the end result was the same. The men were eating out of his hand. An hour or so of this, and Tony could win the game by simply declaring himself the winner and having everyone agree.

So far, Cary could detect no foul play with the cards themselves. Something must have been going on, however, because gradually, the majority of the chips accumulated in front of Tony and Sebastian. And while Tony had the ability to take the participants’ money all he wanted, none of them expected the slightly goofy rich newcomer to actually clean the table. Cary could see them growing more and more frustrated. He wished Bas would tone things down just a little, but the man was clearly in his element, and Ty had promised he could keep all his winnings. Cary could hardly blame him for wanting to make as big a score as he possibly could.

“That was some hand,” Rossi remarked to Sebastian as the dealer once again swept the chips into the sorcerer’s corner.

“Got lucky, I suppose,” Monroe said.

“Yeah, for a fourth time in a row,” the mafioso grumbled. Gladden, who sat on his right, shot him a quick look, but said nothing and called for another cocktail.

Cary quickly mixed a martini, poured it into one of the chilled glasses from the mini freezer tucked under the bar counter, and brought it over to Gladden while the dealer opened a new deck. As he collected the empty glasses, he noticed Tony rubbing the side of his chest absently, and wondered if he was feeling that slight familiar tingling.

Cary’s heart beat faster, and he busied himself with unnecessarily wiping the edge of the game table with a paper napkin. The game could go on well into the night, but every passing minute brought him closer to the risk of exposure. Now was the time to make his move, to prove that, like Sebastian, he was there for a reason. He risked a quick glance at the sorcerer, silently willing him to make some sort of a move that would give Cary a much-needed window of opportunity.

Bas seemed to understand his silent plea, because he inclined his head ever so slightly before taking a peek at his cards. He couldn’t do anything that would help Cary pick Tony’s pocket while that magic ring was at play, but he could certainly divert attention.

But whatever Sebastian was going to do was doomed to remain a mystery, because at that moment the door opened, and the dark-haired woman—the same woman Cary remembered from the San Francisco parking lot—walked in, right past the two bodyguards stationed at the entrance.