I wince at his comment, and his face falls like he didn’t mean to say that. Like he knows… but how could he?
“Sorry. That was in bad taste.” He drags an agitated hand through his thick hair.
I reach up and touch the tender spot where Jorge hit me earlier, and Daniil’s eyes glint black. Maybe I hadn’t done a very good job with my makeup.
“If you need help…” he starts to say quietly, and then the moment explodes when a rough hand wrenches me from my seat.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, but Jorge is too fast, too worked up. He’s dragged me across the room and into a private area behind the bar before I realize what’s happening. My body slams against the wall, pain exploding everywhere.
“Why were you talking to him?” he seethes, his red face inches from my own. “Do you know who he is? He’s bratva. You shouldn’t even be looking at him.” Whisky wafts off Jorge’s breath, and barely contained violence thrums under his skin. He’s drunk and angry. Usually he’s drunk and sloppy, but not tonight.
“I… I didn’t know.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “He was only making small talk. I’m sorry.”
All I feel is fury, but my fear pacifies him, and right now, that’s the only thing that matters. I play the part to a T. Hugging myself, head bowed, a tear escapes down my cheek.
Finally, his erratic breathing calms, and he composes himself enough to glare at me in warning. “You will sit behind my chair and say nothing for the rest of the night. I don’t even want you looking at anyone else. Eyes down or on me, understand?” He wrenches my hair back, and I clench my teeth to keep from reacting. I won't give him that.
“Of course,cariño, of course.” The words burn like acid on my tongue.
“Good.” He kisses me then. Hard, brutal, possessive. It’s for no other reason than to remind me I am his property. His to do what he pleases with.
How wrong he is.
Jorge storms out from behind the bar, dragging me behind him, his hand locked around my wrist like a shackle. As we step out of the back, Daniil’s eyes find mine, livid and wild. He must have seen it all, and from the looks of it, he does not approve. I give him a slight shake of my head, a warning. I don’t need him getting involved. This is my war.
Jorge leads me to the poker table where a game is about to start.
“Buy-in is five hundred thousand,” the dealer announces. No one bats an eye. Only the highest rollers are sitting down to play tonight.
The last seat at the table is about to be taken by a slick-looking man with his hair pulled back in a ponytail when an inked hand drops a highball of amber-colored liquid on the table in front of the spot.
“Sorry, brother, this seat is taken.”
Daniil doesn’t look sorry at all. Whoever ponytail guy is, he takes the hint and hightails it the other way. It’s Daniil’s casino, he’s the alpha here.
I do as I’m told, sitting right behind Jorge with my eyes glued to the floor. I don’t want trouble. I need to get through tonight unscathed. But somehow, I know Daniil is not going to make it easy.
The game starts much like they always do. Players ante up and bet. Liquor flows. The smell of cologne and cigarettes mingle noxiously in the air. It starts out as a raucous game with taunts and laughs passed back and forth, but as cards amass face-up in the center of the table, there’s less talking and more concentrated stares.
Jorge isn’t holding back, losing some hands, but winning many more. I hear little from Daniil—it’s clear he’s methodical and calculating in his play. All my senses are attuned to him, aware of his presence in the room. Every time I peek up, he catches my eye, his face intent, serious, and I am quick to avert my gaze. I know little about poker, but I do know they aren’t playing five-card draw like my dad used to play. This is different.
* * *
Hours later,my head throbs and my ass is numb from sitting in this chair, unmoving. It’s well past three in the morning, and only three players remain in the game: Daniil, Jorge, and a ‘Ndrangheta boss named Cosimo.
The dealer turns over an ace of hearts, ace of spades, and a queen of clubs, and the table goes still. Even though most of the players have folded, they’re riveted by the action.
“Raise,” Cosimo says, sliding half of his towering stack of chips towards the center of the table.
“All in,” Daniil announces.
I glance up to see him push all his chips forward—there must be at least a million dollars there— not seeming the least bit concerned, his expression like ice. Unlike the others, he’s turned down every offer of alcohol since joining the game, only sipping water. I don’t understand everything that’s happening here, but I understand the calmness in his voice when he speaks, the cunning intelligence as he surveys the table.
Jorge and Cosimo follow suit, pushing their chips to the center of the table like mini skyscrapers lined up in a row. Every chip on the table is in play, millions of dollars at stake. It’s all or nothing now. My chest turns cold knowing Jorge will win this hand. He always does when the stakes ratchet up.
On the next round, the dealer turns over a jack of diamonds. Cosimo sighs heavily and lifts his hands in the air before announcing that he folds. But he doesn’t move a muscle from the table. Like everyone else in the room, he wants to see two brutal mafia bosses face off.
It’s between Daniil and Jorge now. The dealer turns over the last card, a seven of clubs, and Jorge flips over his cards with a whoop of victory. I sneak a quick look to see Daniil smiling, but his smile is sinister. A baring of teeth. If Jorge were sober, maybe he’d catch on sooner, but it’s obvious to me—he’s about to get knocked down hard.