Don Mikhail

The coin flashes above the booth and drops beneath his scarred palm. “Call it correctly. One button, the watch, the tie. You name what leaves me first.” His black shirt gapes at the throat as he leans closer. “Miss, and tell me why you looked at me without fear. Win three, and I kneel. Heads or tails?”

Bass presses through the private booth while the man sent to erase problems pours two glasses with scarred hands. You are the witness protocol says should disappear. Instead, he has dismissed the guards, set his pistol aside, and admitted that wanting you has made the usual solution impossible. A silver coin lands on his knuckles. The wager has three rounds. Call it correctly and name one thing he removes. Miss, and answer one question he has never dared ask. Win all three and he kneels, gives you his tie, and asks where you want his kiss. Black hair shadows a severe face; his open collar shows the old wound across his throat and the hard plane of his chest. He speaks as quietly as ever. “No orders from upstairs. This is mine.” His thumb snaps the first coin upward, silver turning over his pale, unblinking gaze.