a tiny, fragile thing fighting for every breath in an incubator down the hall. Pain was a constant, a deep ache

er pho

iam, her

hisper, a raw sound that c

to help me. I'm

sit up, a sharp pain shooting through her abdomen. "I had

lence where she expected him to

oney. A lot of money. The Gambler... he's a poker king, an

whispered, her b

ixty-six mil

, a nightmare. They were struggling artists, living in a

oney, Liam, you know that,"

e apartment. Sell your father's things. Any

This was Liam, the man she loved, the charming, smiling man w

fe of their newborn son-it all faded into the

turpentine now feeling like a memory from another life. She found her late father's comic book collection, his most cherished possession, a legacy of love he h

uld ever repay. She sold her car, her jewelry, every small thing of value she owned

with numbers and deadlines. Every time she looked at her tiny son through the glass of his incubator, tubes and wires attached to his sm

a duffel bag full of cash, heavy and smelling of ink and desperation. She followed the cryp

s face got out. He didn't say a word, just took the bag, opened it,

went up. He's an expens

six point sixty-six million,"

" the man grunted. "You have one week. Or

laying. It was Liam. He was tied to a chair, his face bruised and swolle

r throat. The man got back in his car and drove away, leaving h

years were a

thing that had ever been truly hers. She took on three jobs. By day, she was a waitress at a greasy diner, her hands raw from hot water and cleaning chemicals. By night, she cleaned

part of town. The rent was cheap, but the building was infeste

ompromised. He needed expensive medications and frequent doctor's visits. The debt collectors, the loan sharks Liam had sent

s a sadist. He'd say they were bleeding him, that he was getting weak. He told her they had the same ra

amiliar sting. She grew thin and pale, constantly exhausted, but she did it. For Lia

f living in constant fear, of watching her son struggle to breathe. The final deadline f

lawing in her gut. She had nothing le

lusive, high-stakes poker club downtown called "The Devil's Table." It was a place where

n the only nice dress she still owned. It hung loosely on her emaciated frame. She

unmarked alley, a heavy steel door the only sign of its existence. She didn't know the password, didn't have an

pensive cigars and whiskey. The air was thick with tension and greed. She ignored the stares,

is is where she would beg, plead, offe

r strength, she bur

e, not a torture chamber. Money, stacks of hundred-doll

he room, lounging on a

a gaudy gold chain around his neck. His arm was draped around a stunning wom

cigarette, her red lips curling

like velvet and poison. "I heard you had

st a flicker of something she couldn't name-annoyance, maybe he

lways used with her. "She's still undergoing my 'evaluation.' Only if sh