02 • Camille

Just as they were about to begin, a ripple seemed to pass over every individual in the Metropolitan’s private casino and all it took was an enquiring glance thrown carelessly over David’s head to identify the new arrival: Teodor Vukomanovic.

Camille felt herself still, considered calling the whole thing off, telling Michael that she couldn’t help him before heading home, but of course she remained rooted in her chair, watching as the older man took in the entire room from his vantage point by the door, where men built like slabs of wood with muscles straining under the confines of their black suits flanked his sides.

He was a gangster through and through, supposedly even the leader of the aforementioned crew that Andrej was rumored to work for, but if you bumped into him on a busy street you’d probably think he was someone’s elegantly cultured grandfather.

He even looked the part, hands in the pockets of expensive dress pants, white hair combed and slicked back, sharp bespectacled eyes taking a measure of everyone in the room until his eyes landed on their pool table and he purposefully began to stride forward.

She had no reason to fear that her personal safety had been threatened and yet her stomach folded in on itself. Camille let out a sigh of resignation.

This felt like a plotline in some cheesy mafia romance, except she’d heard enough about these men and knew that they were not to be trifled with—had known Teodor frequented the Metropolitan on three sporadic days of the week, chosen today to arrive here in the hopes that she’d get lucky.

Fate was a bitch.

When he was a few strides away Andrej shot up from his high-backed chair, and gave a low bow from his waist downwards, and even as Teodor waved at him impatiently before patting on his shoulder you could tell that he was pleased.

His hawk eyes swiveled to every player sat around the table, pausing briefly on the blank check at its center before then zeroing in on her. Her expression gave nothing away, even as it became obvious they’d began to speak about her in their language.

She watched the old man’s mouth hang agape when Andrej had caught him up on the events of their entire deal.

“This is risky,” he said, smoothly switching into an English speech pattern that left almost no hint of an accent, and it surprised her even though she knew he’d schooled in some posh university in Australia.

“Almost too good to be true,” Teodor continued, facing her. Camille’s spine remained ramrod straight as she met his gaze head-on.

“I won’t be cheating if that’s what you’re scared of.”

“Oh darling, I would never accuse you of that—but now that you mention it I believe I must add that here, we are not kind to cheaters.”

His unsubtle threat was met only with silence and Camille’s delicately arched brow.

“Andrej is very good by the way, an unbeaten champion second only to me; and he tells me that in the last game you won nothing and lost nothing.”

“I’m hoping I get lucky.”

“I’m sure you will. It’s why I asked him to let this one rest, but he’s prideful. Always has been. I tell him poker is not about ego but he never listens, and if you’re lucky you just might teach him a lesson.”

Once again, men not occupied with games or women of their own had formed a loose circle around them to catch the gist of what was going on, and here Andrej gave a laugh brimming with his easy swagger.

“I’ll be teaching her a lesson later this evening,” he boasted in what must have been history’s worst imitation of a sotto voice, and predictably the group squawked.

Under the table Camille gave a clenched her fists in repressed anger, reminding herself that her ego did not matter. It didn’t do much to soften the sting his humiliating words had left, but she’d anticipated them, counted on them even.

Andrej Jovanovich was a man who wouldn’t stand it if he got shown up by anyone, and she recognized the feeling, felt kinship with it which was why she knew which buttons to press.

She gave a mocking laugh that continued long after everyone else’s had died down, not even bothering to make it sound sincere in the least, and when her opponent’s face flushed precariously she knew she had him right where she wanted him—a final warning from Teodor, who spoke after settling into a seat that one of his body guards had fetched for him was only an added bonus.

He opened with a wider range of hands that barreled at her defenses frequently and for a second she entertained the possibility that she’d made a terrible mistake. She halted, regrouped, and then continued, because it would be a cold day in hell before she let him get the best of her, and this was a lucky thing as she resorted to another thing she was very good at: anticipating.

Andrej played like a bully, his strategy a constant ram that hit and hit and hit without giving a moment of respite. He was a wizard with numbers, better than her definitely and used to having the upper hand, but poker was a game that had much to do with psychology as much as it had to do with strategy, and he wasn’t playing to win, he was playing to not lose and save face.

Every great player had a weak spot, and in the hours that’d followed her walking in through the velvet panel she’d noticed that his was a fragile ego.

“You’re surprisingly good for someone who needs permission to play,” Camille started conversationally, and her opponent’s jaw flexed, teeth clenching as his hands formed fists around the cards he held in his hands.

He said nothing, raising and re-raising his bets with impunity, poking at her defenses with bluffs that met a brick wall that was her refusal to fold—and for her part she maintained a steady flow of conversation, double layered innuendos that would’ve been easy to brush aside to anyone who wasn’t Andrej.

Like chess, Camille loved playing poker. The sheer joy of living in a moment as stakes piled on top of each other sent a rush through her that made her feel immortal, smooth, untouchable; and she wondered if it was because she didn’t care about the money, but the art of the whole thing.

She had never been the type to take uncalculated risks, especially if they put her in a position with outcomes she couldn’t even begin to possibly predict, but Camille guessed that if she ever decided to she would make an excellent gambler.

Beside them Teodor’s expression had turned contemplative, and it was easy to tell that he saw through her tactics but chose to say nothing. Hell, everyone except Andrej could guess at her tactics and it would be no problem, as he was the only one who mattered.

She maintained her MO, keeping her plays mathematically correct even as she aimed and fired at his weak spots, listening to her instincts when they told her to exact a specific amount of pressure at a certain time, when to meet his offenses with offenses, or defenses—she played her percentages over the long term, exploited him.

Four hands in and they’d both won and lost two times each, and the tension in the air was so thick she could’ve cut it with a knife if she had one. The last round would reveal a winner, and thoughts of what’d happen if she lost threatened to slip past the barriers she’d locked them behind.

It was time to discard, take new cards and place bets.

Camille looked up and noticed that the circle from earlier had grown to encompass players who’d been engrossed with other games when the match began, along with some girl’s who’d arrived as the plus ones of men now probably drunk out of their minds.

One of them, a cute redhead that had a constellation of freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheeks ran her thumb over her throat in a slitting motion and mouthed, end him.

This shut the voices up temporarily and she threw away a useless two of hearts and a nine of diamonds, then picked up the jack and a three she needed for a full house.

Andrej bet twenty thousand and she matched him. The pot was 543,000 dollars.

“Won’t you fold?” Camille taunted.

“Over somebody else’s dead body,” Andrej murmured, betting another ten thousand, and she wondered where he got the money from, and if, by Teodor’s pinched expression, he would get punished for this show of extravagance.

It was very likely, but the blond man had cartwheeled through bottles of expensive alcohol and now seemed too drunk to bother with anything except the game.

In the moments that followed she wondered what came next. In the heat of the moment she’d forgotten the discomfort she felt at having her heels on too long and now, all at once her fatigue, the pain seemed to hit her and she winced slightly.

Andrej noticed, seeming finally himself and gave a ludicrous wink. Camille thought of how she’d begin to explain the insane amount of money that’d been withdrawn from her trust fund to her parents, could vividly already see the look of disbelief that’d sit on her mother’s face when their contact at the bank phoned to let them know.

It was time to show hands, and Andrej had only two pairs. He’d been bluffing.

A heady mix of relief and victory settled over Camille and she closed her eyes, letting the moment hang theatrically before fanning out her cards.

“You bitch,” her opponent spat after two ticks.

“Sorry, I guess your luck ran out,” Camille said, sweeping the money toward her in an easy, practiced manner. She considered tearing up the blank check but concluded that that would be too petty and instead folded it in half before depositing it in her bag.

Andrej murmured something that sounded like he was cursing at her then got up, unsteady on his feet, and pulled his hand back to strike at her. The blow was stopped by one of Teodor’s body guards, who felled him in an efficient manner. He fainted before he even hit the ground.

Teodor only deigned to give his unconscious protégé a passing glance before looking up at her and clapping. The other patrons followed his lead, and maybe it was a trick of the light but girls who’d been watching her seemed even more radiant than they had since the night began.

“I must say, you are quite the dynamo Miss Delacourt.”

Camille inclined her head, accepting his congratulations.

“In fact,” he continued, “I think we should get together for a match one of these days.”

She gave a demure smile. Like your boy said, over somebody else’s dead body.

“I had a hard time beating Andrej,” Camille said instead, “and you’re better than him. I don’t like risks.”

“All of the best things in life are a risk,” Teodor countered simply. His glasses caught a reflection of fluorescent lights from the ceiling as he turned to look at her. “You cannot predict life.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she admitted, painting a smile that could’ve been stitched onto her face. “But until then, I’ll stick to my way of doing things. It makes winning a lot easier.”