All Chapters of A Sinners Gamble : Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

Daisy’s Prologue 2 Years AgoTime moved too fast on some days and unbearably slow on others. It was my enemy, my reluctant friend. Mostly, it was against me. I never had enough of it.Sometimes it helped me dodge an insult or a belt. Other days, it failed me completely—leaving me trapped when I heard the rumble of his run-down car pulling into the driveway.Time.As I sit on a plastic bench in the airport, the cold biting into my thighs, my phone ringing pulls me out of my stupor. I don’t dare answer it. I don’t want to hear him spit more venom my way. It’s been a problem for years.When I pull it out of my pocket, I stare at the house phone number flashing on the screen. Every time this happens—every time I’ve spent nights in the hospital with injuries from him—my skin crawls, and I want to cry out. To tell someone.I did once. They told me it would be okay, to just hang in there. They lied. It was never okay.No on

Power isn’t loud.It doesn’t beg for attention or raise its voice to be feared.It waits—patient, deliberate—while the rest of the world learns what happens when rules are ignored.From my office, the city stretches beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows like it belongs to me. Because it does. Every casino light flickering below, every deal made in the shadows, every bad decision that starts with just one more hand—it all feeds into my world eventually. People don’t realize that part when they walk through my doors on a Friday night or when they leave at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning. They think they’re gambling with cards, with luck, with numbers on a screen, but I know different.They are simply drowning in the shallows, and they have no idea.They’re gambling with me.I don’t rise or even look up when Xander and Rio walk in. I don’t need to. They take the seats across from my desk without being invited—already annoyed, already aware that if I called them in this early, someone’s day w

Marcus circles me like he’s bored of me already.That’s how I know I’m doing better. I'm getting there. I feel it in my bones.“Again,” he says, flat. Not loud. Not impressed. “From the top.”I reset my stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees loose. Weight balanced—not leaning forward like I used to. My hands come up automatically now, palms half-open. Ready. They don't shake like they used to. They aren't sweaty anymore.I don't have to think about it anymore, I just do it.“Go on,” Marcus adds, tilting his head. “Unless you’ve decided tonight’s the night you quit.”I snort under my breath and step forward.He lunges without warning—fast, controlled. I catch his wrist, pivot like he drilled into me, and drive my elbow back toward where his ribs would be if he weren’t already shifting out of range. He blocks it, of course. He always does. But this time my balance holds. This time I don’t stumble. I keep track on his weak points. His left arm is his strongest arm so I always take my a

She never looks behind her.That was the first thing that pissed me off about her.Most people do. Not immediately — not when they think they're imagining things — but eventually. A glance in a window to catch a shadow. A slight turn of the head. A stumble meant to bait whoever's there into revealing themselves. Something dramatic.Daisy Harrison does none of it.She doesn't know someone is after her for her father's debts. For weeks, I've had my men tail her every move. Not once has she questioned her sanity. Not out loud anyway. Every CCTV frame I have watched, they capture her strength in stride. No falter. No glance over her shoulder. She's either oblivious or indifferent to her safety — and that's the second thing that pisses me off about the woman I am currently watching from the shadows.I learned about Daisy in fragments at first — photographs sliding across my desk back in New York, timestamps scribbled on the back: where she went, who she was with. Quiet reports, delivered w