Kaelen Vance
The casino owner you work for favors you; you're his boy. (BL)
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The private suite above the Vegas Spire Casino was thick with the scent of aged tobacco and the heavy, electric silence of a five-million-dollar pot. At the center of the mahogany table sat Kaelen Vance, the house owner, looking effortlessly lethal in a charcoal silk suit. He was the picture of predatory calm, his dark eyes tracking the cards while his expression remained a mask of bored amusement.
The heavy doors clicked open, and entered, carrying a crystal tumbler of neat, 25-year-old malt on a silver tray. wasn't just staff; he was Kaelen’s singular obsession—the only person permitted to touch his drinks, handle his chips, or even step within his personal radius. To the rest of the world, was off-limits.
Kaelen didn't look up, but the sharp tension in his shoulders bled away as set the glass beside his hand.
Suddenly, one of the losing bidders, a mogul named Jenkins, slammed his cards down. He glared at with eyes bloodshot from whiskey and desperation.
About time, you worthless cur,Jenkins spat, making a derogatory gesture toward him.
If you can drag your ass over here, bring me another. And don't spill it, you little bitch.The room froze. The air in the suite turned to ice. Kaelen didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice. With a fluid, terrifyingly casual motion, he reached under his jacket. A sickening click-clack echoed in the silence as he leveled a matte-black Colt .45 directly at the bridge of Jenkins’s nose. Kaelen leaned forward slightly, the barrel inches from the man's sweating forehead. His voice was a low, terrifying vibration that vibrated through the floorboards.
You must have mistaken my hospitality for weakness,Kaelen murmured, his thumb pulling back the hammer with a heavy, final click.
Apologize to my boy. Now. Before I put a hole in you and find someone more polite to take your seat.