Chapter 2 - THE PINK FINGERNAIL

The silence in the casino was absolute.

A dozen guns remained leveled at Elena’s head. The smell of burning alcohol and roasted tobacco drifted up from the carpet where Silas Vance’s signature Cuban cigar lay in a ruined, smoldering heap.

Silas’s dark eyes bored into her. He didn’t yell. He didn’t blink. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated through the soles of Elena’s cheap sensible shoes.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow your head off right now."

Elena’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She slowly raised her hands, palms open, keeping her eyes locked on Silas. She couldn’t look at the guns. If she looked at the guns, she would scream, and if she screamed, she would die.

"Because I just saved your life, Mr. Vance," she said. Her voice trembled, but the words were clear.

The blonde sitting on Silas’s lap—a woman introduced earlier only as Valentina—gasped loudly, her hand flying to her chest. "Silas, she’s insane! She threw the table at you! Kill her!"

Silas didn't look at Valentina. He raised a single, manicured hand. Instantly, the dozen guns lowered an inch, though they didn't holster.

"Explain," Silas commanded.

"The cigar," Elena breathed, her eyes darting to the smoldering mess on the floor. "The mouthpiece. She poisoned it."

Valentina sprang up from Silas’s lap, her face twisting in outraged fury. "You lying bitch! How dare you? Silas, she’s a degenerate Bratva debtor! She’s probably high!"

"Shut up, Valentina," Silas said softly. The sheer lack of volume in his voice made the hair on the back of Elena’s neck stand up.

He slowly leaned forward, resting his elbows on the green baize of the ruined poker table. "You saw poison."

"I saw a transfer," Elena corrected. Her dealer training kicked in. Facts. Only facts. "Under her right index fingernail. It’s painted pink. When she placed the cigar in your mouth, she traced the tip. I saw a thick, milky liquid transfer to the tobacco."

Silas stared at Elena. Then, he turned his head slowly to look at Valentina.

Valentina was beautiful, but panic was an ugly thing. It made her eyes bulge and her skin pale under the expensive makeup. She took a tiny half-step backward. "Silas, baby. You don't believe this trash, do you? I love you."

"Show me your hands, Val," Silas said.

"Silas, please—"

"Show. Me. Your. Hands."

Valentina’s lower lip quivered. She slowly raised her hands. Her manicured nails glistened under the harsh casino lights.

Silas reached out and grabbed her right wrist. He didn't pull her close; he just held her arm suspended in the air. He studied her index finger.

"There's nothing there," Valentina whimpered. "See? She's lying."

Silas didn't say a word. He reached into his tuxedo pocket and pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief. He wrapped the handkerchief around Valentina’s right index finger and squeezed. Hard.

Valentina shrieked in pain, trying to pull away, but Silas’s grip was like forged steel. He pulled the handkerchief away.

In the center of the pure white silk, there was a tiny, faint yellow stain. It smelled faintly of bitter almonds and burnt sugar.

Silas dropped her wrist as if she were diseased.

"Aconite," Silas whispered. "Modified. Fast-acting."

Valentina turned to run. She didn't make it two steps. The massive Russian oligarch, who had been sitting quietly at the table, reached out a meaty hand and caught her by the throat, slamming her down onto the felt.

The casino erupted into controlled chaos. Silas’s men moved with terrifying efficiency, securing the room, grabbing Valentina, and locking down the exits.

Elena stood frozen, unable to process that she was still breathing.

Silas stood up, brushing a final piece of clay chip off his lapel. He looked at Elena. The anger in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating curiosity.

"You have sharp eyes, Dealer," he said.

"I see everything," Elena said, her voice shaking. "I have to. It’s my job."

"Your job is to deal cards," Silas replied, stepping around the table until he was inches from her. He towered over her, smelling of expensive cologne and danger. "So why stick your neck out for me? You owe the Bratva three hundred thousand dollars. With me dead, the city goes into chaos. Your debt might have vanished in the crossfire."

Elena looked up into his dead-end eyes. "Because my six-year-old son, Toby, is asleep in a one-bedroom apartment three miles from here. If you died at my table, your men would have killed me. Toby would go into the system. I don't care about your wars, Mr. Vance. I care about going home."

Silas stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, folded piece of thick cream paper.

He handed it to her.

Elena’s hands shook as she unfolded it. It was a promissory note. Her father’s signature was scrawled at the bottom in messy, desperate ink. But the header at the top didn't belong to the Russian Bratva.

The logo at the top was a black onyx.

"You don't owe the Russians anymore, Elena," Silas said softly. "I bought your father’s debt this morning."