Ben called with an emergency, as usual. To Wheeler’s surprise, Ben was in one of the private rooms at the back of Club Sin. Nothing went together better than strippers, money, and gambling, so most club owners combined the three. They weren’t small potatoes either. If you played in one of those clubs, then you needed serious cash. Ben normally worked the human tournaments or in casinos, but sometimes he got the itch for a bigger pot, and he’d wander into one of these clubs with a big set of balls and a medium-sized billfold.

And every time, Wheeler bailed him out.

Wheeler had angrily tucked his phone in his back pocket and made his way to the private rooms. Naya was fenced in by bouncers in a crowded room, so he’d only have a short time to resolve this crisis before her dance ended. Once he made his way past security, he found Ben surrounded by three men who looked like they’d been using his face as a punching bag. The fear in Ben’s eyes vanished when he caught sight of Wheeler.

“Brother! See, what did I tell you?” he said to the men. “I’ve got the money; it was just a delay in getting it all here.” Ben patted one of the tall suits on the shoulder, who immediately knocked his arm away.

Wheeler gave Ben a punishing stare. A table to the left had cards and poker chips spread all over, as if someone had been thrown on top of it and roughed up. Maybe it was the blood spatter on the queen of clubs that gave it away, or the gash on Ben’s cheekbone.

While each of the Weston pack contributed to the family account, they all had their own separate funds. Ben’s account was as depleted of money as a Vampire’s victim was of blood. Without a word, Wheeler sat down and signed a check.

Meanwhile, a man wearing what looked like a communication device over his ear had turned his head away, listening to someone. Then he approached Ben and baited him with another game—a bigger pot.

Wheeler held his check between two fingers and glared at Ben. “Do you want this? Then say no. We’re done here.”

Ben filled in the numbers of what he owed and walked out with cocky strut and a smug grin on his face.

“These guys are loaded, Wheeler. I can beat ’em.”

“The fuck you can. What am I doing here then?”

Ben stopped him in the hall. “Now I know how they play and all their tells. Sometimes you have to lose a little to hustle the next game. I’m serious, man. That pot could set us up for the next five years. Don’t you care about your pack?”

Wheeler pointed a finger in his face. “Don’t. If I even hear that you came back in this club to eat a fucking sandwich, then Austin’s gonna know about it.”

“Fuck you,” Ben spat. “Austin doesn’t give a shit what I do because I’m bringing in a hell of a lot more money than you.”