“Yes, I do.” No cheater walked out of the Bronze House without a “talk” from Clay.

“Then, before you get blood on your suit, I should also tell you that she’s back.”

Clay’s spine straightened. Now Jack was telling him? Jesus. “How long?”

“Strolled in as we were bringing this piece of filth back here.”

Goddamn it. Why had she returned? He dragged a hand down his jaw. “Take care of this here,” he said and gestured to the man sobbing on his floor. “And don’t ruin my carpets.”

Jack jerked his chin toward the two staff members hovering nearby. “Take him to the meat shed,” he instructed the men. “I’ll deal with him in a moment.”

Clay left the room and hurried to the balcony, focused on her, already forgetting the past few minutes. All that mattered was getting to his hidden perch. He had to see her for himself.

She shouldn’t be here. Her family was one of great wealth and privilege. Old money and small minds. The kind of people Clay exploited for his own gain. Her father was legendary, a bombastic blowhard who rolled over anyone who dared to get in his way—including less fortunate families trying to eke out a modest living downtown.

What would her father think about his middle daughter’s late-night visits to the Bronze House? Clay almost wished he could tell him merely to witness the reaction.

Hard to say why Clay allowed her entry. After all, the Bronze House had strict rules for gaining entrance. Men of a certain class congregated here, men with deep pockets and little sense. Women were forbidden, per his explicit order. He didn’t even permit prostitutes here, as many casinos did.

Yet, she flouted his rules. On more than one occasion. Not only that; she also walked out a winner. Every time.

He admired that about her. And so, he tolerated her presence.

It was irresponsible of him—and Clay was nothing if not responsible. He prided himself on the solid judgment that had saved his life time and time again in a city full of danger and retribution. Those sharp instincts had helped him rise to the top of New York’s underbelly, the places catering to the voracious appetite for vice. And his current instinct screamed for him to kick her out.

He took the stairs to the balcony two at a time, his shoes slapping on the old wood. She was becoming a problem, one he needed to solve. Her attendance was disruptive. Not in a loud, destructive way, but nearly every man in her vicinity would leer at her or angle somehow for her favor. It was disgusting. Worse, if the men were leering and angling then they weren’t gambling. Another reason why women had no business inside these walls.