Free Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) by Ben Bequer, Joshua Hoade

him.
    He smiled, shaking his head.
    “This is not how we do this,” he said.
    “Triple then,” I said. I really didn’t want to be in an open car with dozens of strangers, regardless of how comfortable the seats were. “I got a shitload of money.”
    “Sir,” he said, “There is no cabin for you.”
    “Quadruple then-“ I said then just bunched up the whole wad shoved it into his hand. “Fuck it. Here, take the lot. Must be two thousand euros.”
    For all his bluster, he accepted the cash and even went so far as to start counting it, fixing the messy bunch of money I had handed him.
    “Signore…” he said, shaking his head as he adjusted the money. “I have an idea,” he said finally, putting the well-folded money into his pants pocket and reaching for his manifest. “Follow me,” he said and walked me back to the cabin I had come from.
    He opened the door and spoke to the model in fast Italian. She nodded and he gestured for me to enter and I sat down back where I was just a moment ago.
    The porter nodded and slid the door closed, walking off.
    The model was still on the phone, glaring at me over the rims of her sunglasses. I shrugged, not knowing what else to do.
    She pointed at me with a long, elegant finger, “No snoring.”
    I chuckled, easing myself toward the window and watching the landscape race by.
     
    *              *              *              *
     
    “So are you special police?” she asked me, having just a second before ended her phone call. It was only her switch to English that tipped me off that she was talking to me.
    “Me? No,” I said.
    “That’s what the porter said,” she said. “That you were on a special mission and needed to borrow the room.”
    I chuckled, “No.”
    “How much did his lie cost you?”
    I looked out the window, “About two thousand Euros, I reckon.”
    “Wow,” she said. “Next time you need a lie, please tell me, okay?”
    Her posture changed, more relaxed, leaning into me.
    “Are you rich?”
    I nodded, but she looked down to my shoes, studied the poorly fitting hem of my pants and the cheapie socks.
    “I was in a sailboat accident,” I said. “Near Il Porto. I lost everything.”
    She looked at me closely, finally smiling.
    “You don’t sail,” she said, without any doubt.
    “I don’t get sunburns,” I said.
    She shook her head, “It’s not that. Though you should have more color.”
    “My name is Dale McKeown,” I said. “But I’m more commonly known as Blackjack. I’m a super.”
    I bit down on the words, seconds too late. Her arrogance and derision were just so grating. So much for trying to avoid notice. I tensed in my seat, unsure of what to do next. I should have taken the denigration and moved on, Milan was a short trip compared to what I might have just opened myself up to. Then again, she wasn’t sizing me up like I was a vagrant pauper anymore.
    If someone ever weaponized pride, I’d be dead in a day.
    Her dark eyes never left mine as she took the words in and worked through their meaning. I saw her expression go neutral, before growing into something closer to confusion, her head cocking to the side as if a different angle would somehow add more to the puzzle. This was the part where people tended to run screaming, and I was ready for it. Instead she straightened in her seat and grabbed her phone.
    “You’re…” she said. “A villain?”
    I smiled, letting the full weight sink in.
    “But you’re not in any trouble,” I said.
    “What?”
    She smiled and shook her head and dialed a call.
    She wasn’t calling the authorities. I could tell from her demeanor that she wasn’t scared of me at all. If anything, she seemed amused, waiting for the other side to take her call. She still had her head cocked sideways, but I couldn’t get a read on her expression. I just raised an eyebrow as she started talking, this time in French as perfect as her English, as perfect as I