Jean Phillippe isn’t stupid, and he knows he’s risking more than my money at his casino if he’s deliberately hiding something from me. Luckily, I don’t give a fuck what people want. It won’t be the first time I’ve shown up where I wasn’t wanted. So why, of all the games played at these tables, would my old acquaintance neglect to invite me to this particular one? He never misses an opportunity to bring more money into the casino’s bank. Regardless of whether I’m in residence on my island, less than a mile away from Ibiza, Jean Phillippe sends me an invite to the private games. All I know is that I don’t like it when someone tries to hide something from me.
They don’t know I’d rather be on the deck of one of my ships, at the mercy of the open ocean, instead of surrounded by flashing lights and grating chimes indicating someone just won or lost a fortune. They think they know everything about me, but they don’t. I didn’t intend to be here tonight, but heads turn as I stride across the casino floor and try to block out the scent of tropical-perfumed air Jean Phillippe pumps into his jewel, La Reina de Ibiza. When a billionaire walks into a room, you feel it.
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