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I glance at my hand—mediocre at best. My mind aches for the numbers and patterns that usually dance before my eyes, but now there’s only darkness where my gift used to shine.
“Check,” I say, trying to mask the quiver in my voice but he notices.
“Scared, Fallon?” His lips curve into a cruel smile, and he tosses all his chips into the pot with a flick of his wrist. “All in.”
My father’s face flashes in my mind, blindfolded and vulnerable behind me. Panic claws at my insides; I push a stack of chips forward, my movements jerky with desperation.
“Last hand,” Leone taunts, revealing his hand with theatrical slowness one card at a time.
A straight flush lays before him, mocking my pair of sevens. I realize I’m doomed the moment she laid the last card down. My stomach drops. It’s over; I’ve lost. The walls seem to close in around me, and the air grows thin as despair settles over my shoulders.
“Seems luck has abandoned you tonight.” Leone’s words are a death sentence, spoken with the nonchalance of a man discussing the weather.
I watch helplessly as he rakes in the pot, my last chance slipping away. I look up at Leone, my green eyes shimmering with unshed tears—not of defeat, but of rage.
EIGHT
FALLON
“Are you satisfied?” I spit, the taste of defeat bitter on my tongue as I will myself not to cry.
“Immensely.” Leone leans back, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips as the dealer clears the table and exits quickly without so much as a backward glance.
His callous fingers slide along the barrel of the gun sitting next to him on the table, a caress that promises nothing but death. The weapon is an extension of his arrogant will, cold and ready to deliver its final verdict. A chill skitters down my spine as I watch him pick it up and take aim at my father’s blindfolded form.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice a jagged edge of desperation. “You have me now; let him go.”
“Unfortunately for you, my dear, mercy isn’t a luxury in my world.”
My heart thunders against my rib cage, each beat a drum roll to the inevitable. But as he pulls the hammer back with a click that echoes like a tomb being sealed, something primal surges within me. I can’t—won’t—let my father pay for trying to save Emma; that seems cruel.
Time seems to slow, and my senses are heightened. Every breath feels like inhaling shards of glass, every heartbeat a sledgehammer to my chest. In one swift, desperate movement, I launch myself across the dimly lit space, tackling Leone with all the force my body can muster.
Our bodies collide and bang rings out loudly, the impact jarring bones and spilling chips. The gun is trapped between us.
“Get off me!” Leone grunts, struggling beneath me as we wrestle.
Our bodies tussle, limbs entangled. My shoulder burns with the friction of the struggle, my muscles screaming in protest as adrenaline fuels me and gives me strength I didn’t know I possessed. But it’s nothing compared to the pain that rips through me as the gun goes off for a second time, the sound deafening.
“Ah!” I cry out, the impact jolting me. Warmth spreads rapidly across my shoulder, the scent of blood mingling with sweat and fear. My vision blurs, a crimson stain blossoming on my flesh like a fatal flower.
“Fallon!” Leone spits, shoving me off him with a surprising strength that makes me hit the wall.
I hit the floor hard, my head spinning from the collision. Pain radiates from my wound as panic claws at my throat with each pained breath I suck in.
“Look at what you’ve done,” Leone hisses, rising to his feet and standing over me with the gun now trained on my face. “You could’ve walked away with just a broken heart, but you chose to play the hero. How fucking noble.”
“Go to hell,” I manage through gritted teeth, defiant even as my body burns violently and I bleed all over the ground.
“Maybe I will… but not tonight.” His dark eyes bore into mine, full of malice.
Blood oozes between my fingers where they press against my shoulder, the metallic tang of it heavy in the air. Adrenaline surges through my veins, cutting through the fog of pain and fear that threatens to consume me. My gaze darts around the room, searching for an opportunity—any chance for leverage.
“Such a pretty little thing, bleeding out on my floor,” Leone croons, checking the clip in his gun, his voice a venomous caress as he watches me squirm. “A bit too spirited, though. Oh well, you’ll learn soon enough.” Leone looks for his jacket, tossing the gun on the table.
“Go fuck yourself,” I spit, my words laced with venom despite the agony that claws at my senses as I force myself to my feet, using the wall to hold myself up. Leone snatches his jacket up off the floor, his brows pinching together, rifling inside the pockets.
I stagger a step forward. The moment I do, Milo moves closer, his face a mask of indifference when I spot another gun on the floor, the gun Leone must be looking for and has dropped from his jacket in our struggle. As I spot it, so does Milo as he moves to pick it up. Leone tosses his jacket aside and picks up his fallen chair.
