Cover

Dedication

For the girls who play hard

Chapter One

The Bronze House

Broadway and Thirty-Third Street, NYC

1891

There was a special place in hell for men who attempted to cheat at cards.

Clayton Madden stood in a back room inside his casino, scowling at the man kneeling on the carpet. Tears and snot leaked all over the man’s face, his pleas for mercy echoing off the bare plaster walls. The words meant nothing to Clay. Cornered rats always begged for their lives when trapped. He’d seen it time and time again.

Clay had a reputation as unfeeling, a cold monster. And it was absolutely true. He’d long turned hard in the face of this world’s cruelty, growing up poor in a city that worshipped money and prestige over kindness and faith. Where graft, bribery and violence ruled. He’d learned . . . and thrived. Climbed up through the ranks of the criminal underworld until he’d accumulated enough power to wield it on his own behalf. Darkness had settled in his soul years before he’d opened the city’s poshest casino.

He loved the Bronze House. It was his pride and joy, the culmination of all his scraping and scrapping. The city’s richest and most privileged men came here nightly. Eager to wager large sums of money, which Clay was only too happy to pocket. Some men, however, thought they were smarter than Clay. That they could steal money from him and get away with it.

Clay hated those men worst of all.

They were dealt with swiftly, harshly. He let them live, of course—but just barely. Dead men could not spread tales to warn other potential cheaters that Madden’s casinos were off-limits. Not to mention killing men brought about questions Clay would rather not answer.

“P-please, Mr. Madden.” The man was trembling, his voice cracking. “Please don’t hurt me. I won’t ever come back, I swear.”

Same song, different rat. Did he really believe Clay was stupid enough to let him walk out, unharmed?

Clay shook his head. “You’re right. You won’t ever come back, not when I’m through with you.”

Sweat coated the man’s brow, his eyes growing impossibly wide. “No, please. I have a family—”

“What would you like to do?”

Clay turned to the source of the question. His assistant and longtime friend, Bald Jack, waited in the shadows. Jack was a former pugilist and a crack shot. He was also loyal, intelligent and good with people where Clay faltered. Clay trusted him with his life. “How much?” In Clay’s mind, everything was measured in terms of dollars and cents.

“One-twenty before we stopped him.”

Not an exorbitant amount, but it was the point of the matter. “The usual, then.”

“You got it. Want to talk to him first?” The edge of Jack’s mouth kicked up, as if he anticipated Clay’s answer.