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“But your little card counting, cheating secret,” Leone continues, leaning closer as if to share secrets meant only for the damned. “Will make this all the more… fun when I win.”
I square my shoulders, thrusting my fear into the pit of my stomach, where it churns like a storm.
“Let’s just get this over with. I want to go home.”
Leone laughs. “You’re so sure of yourself,” he laughs, motioning for the girl to deal out the first hand.
As the rounds progress, the clatter of chips becomes an eerie warfare as we play hand after hand. Leone plays his hand close to his chest, his face an impenetrable mask of concentration. Yet beneath the surface, I sense his enjoyment, the predator relishing the hunt.
“Check,” I murmur, my eyes darting from the pot to his inscrutable face. The world shrinks to a singular moment. The suffocating haze of cigarette smoke, the distant clanking of chips—all of it dissolves into nothingness until there is only Leone and me.
Leone’s lip curls upward, a predator’s smile, as he lays his cards down with deliberate slowness. “But is it good enough?”
Leone’s presence is a flame, and my skin prickles with an awareness that goes beyond fear and borders on something far more dangerous.
“Hope is a cruel mistress,” he taunts, his eyes flickering over me like the touch of a shadow, but I smile in return.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not relying on hope.” My retort is steady, even if my pulse is a frantic drum in my veins as I lay my cards down, beating his.
“Indeed?” Leone leans forward, removing his jacket and rolling the sleeves of his shirt. His tattooed arms resting on the table.
The woman deals the next hand, and I slide my cards closer, peeking at them.
“Tell me,” Leone muses as he picks up his hand, the corners of the cards bending to his touch. “Does your heart always race this fiercely? Or is it my presence that quickens your pulse?” he asks, staring at my neck.
I swallow nervously. I can hear my heart beating in my ears, so it’s no wonder he can see it pumping blood through my veins.
“Focus on your hand, Leone,” I reply, though heat creeps up my neck at the probing edge of his question. “My heart is none of your concern.”
“Everything about you is my concern,” he counters. “Especially when you’re under my roof, playing at my table.” He tosses some chips onto the table, and I follow, doing the same.
I reveal my hand—a straight flush.
“Ah, got me this one!” His voice cracks, but his composure remains unshaken, making me wonder if losing is another game. He is unshakeable.
“Easily,” I counter, my heart thrumming with the rush of victory yet knowing the game is far from over. “Especially when you’ve been underestimating your opponent.”
“Underestimating?” He stands up slowly, every inch the king of his dark domain as the next hand is dealt. “Or perhaps I’ve been setting the stage for the grand finale.”
“Your theatrics don’t scare me.” I rise to meet him, and the space between us is charged with electric currents of animosity and an unnerving attraction that I dare not dwell upon. The dealer clears the table and reshuffles the deck.
“Scared? Not yet.” Leone circles the table, a slow predator stalking its prey. “But hopeful, slightly intrigued—captivated, even—that’s the look I see in your green eyes.”
“Is your analysis necessary? Or maybe you like hearing yourself speak.” My words are ice, belying the fire that courses through me at his proximity. “Maybe you should focus on your hand, and the prize, you might win the next one.”
“Ah, but you are the prize, Fallon,” he murmurs, standing so close now that I can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. “And I always keep my eyes on what’s mine.”
“Nothing is yours until the game is over,” I breathe out, fighting the urge to step back. Instead, I hold my ground, using my defiance as a shield against his unsettling allure.
“Quite right you are,” he murmurs and nods to someone. I realize it’s Milo. I also notice we are alone in here now—the dealer gone and a fresh deck left on the table–no staff, gamblers, and none of his guard. I am about to question him when Leone speaks.
“Strip,” he commands, his words dripping with a venomous desire that churns my stomach as I turn back to face him.
“Excuse me?” I snap back, the disgust and disbelief surging through me.
“Your clothes,” he clarifies, stepping closer, the threat in his voice as palpable. “Or your father’s life.” His ultimatum hangs in the air between us, heavy and menacing, when he pulls his gun from the waistband of his pants.
The click of a gun’s hammer cocking back shatters the silence, and my resolve splinters along with it.
