Re: The Capital: Jude and Sasha
One of the men grumbled about foreigners and how the government should be building a goddamn beautiful wall in his drunken frustration. Money spoke volumes, however, and patriotism was a plague that forced the guy to have to show up the flashy European. Cash thrown down next to Jude's was paired with a sneer and the man buried himself into his glass. "I don't know, maybe they will surprise you," Sasha was speaking to her brother, but her gaze was pinned onto the other one of the men at the table. She ran fingertips along his forearm and plastered on that smile of hers which was saved for marks, pretending to be coyly smitten as mild flirtatious intent purred from the back of her throat, "I hear American men don't take no for an answer." The man stammered for a moment before clearing his throat and tossed some more money down on the table.
The plan, as far as Sasha had told Jude, should have been easy. More talking idiots out of money than cheating the tables, though the latter was always fun. Their big mark was a man with a weakness for baccarat, throwing tens of thousands of dollars out per hand. If he was there, the cash would be flooding the place. This particular game was indeed small change, but a few hands would still beat a week's pay. Easy peasy. In and out. No harm, no foul. But if things did get out of hand her derringer was strapped to the inside of her off-hand calf, a few inches above her ankle, where the swish and sway of fabric hid any hint of weaponry. It only held three shots, so the gun was only there for a possible emergency, not to hold-up the money room (which was only an idle fantasy, not a possibility, since Sasha had no idea how to get out apart from the elevator).
They had the attention of the wrong people the moment they swept into the room. There were no signs as of yet to tip Sasha or Jude off that they were under scrutinization. Not that it would have fazed her in the slightest. Thanks to the names Sasha had dropped to work her way into this little gambling den the people that ran it were on alert, and royalty, no matter how illegitimate, was not something that would show up in the Capital. The completely unrelated hitch in the plan was seated at one of the poker tables, a pained memory from Sasha's past that should have remained in Jersey. She hadn't seen Otto yet, but the burly blond had seen her and his plan was starting to fall into place. He was one of the few people in the room that did not look like he belonged, what with his muscles rippling underneath his cheap ill-fitting suit. Piercing blue eyes stayed glued on Sasha with all too much familiarity, while the fake princess tittered and grazed fingers over the shoulder of one of her brother's competitors.
Gordon Gecko (so named in Sasha's mind due to his eerily large lizard-man type mouth, and not because of any resemblance to the almost same-named character from Wall Street) appreciated the feminine attention, while Mr. Cranky Racist grumbled into his drink. She was careful to watch where the cash was kept in each of these men's jackets, and to where the dealer put the money as he exchanged it into appropriate chips. "You have to excuse my brother," she explained to Mr. Gecko, "He doesn't know how to have any fun." And that affectionate sibling teasing was blinked into innocence as she glanced at the table and asked, "Is this a lot of money? It doesn't seem like a lot. A warm up round?" And with some more reluctance the men threw more down. To be proper competition.