“Well done,” Daniil says, his voice a deep timbre. “Now what do you say we have some real fun tonight. Bet on something with a little more value.” His gaze cuts from Jorge to me and back again.
From behind, I watch a muscle tic in Jorge’s jaw. “What are you offering?”
Reaching into his pocket, Daniil produces a set of keys and lays them on the table. “Keys to my Brooklyn penthouse overlooking the New York Harbor. Worth twelve mil.”
Jorge is quiet, considering. He’s money hungry, always has been. “And in return?” Jorge asks.
“Bianca,” Daniil says simply. “If you lose, she’s mine.”
What!? My heart lurches in my chest. A slow trickle of sweat makes its way down my back. What is he doing? Jorge roars in laughter and throws a sharp glare over his shoulder at me. “Really, you want my little jewel?” His voice is dark ice. “How sweet.”
All eyes land on me. My mind spins out of control, rioting and evading my command, much like my heartbeat. Why would Daniil want me? Unless he knows who my uncle is. He hadn’t seemed to earlier, but he’s bratva. Despite his gentlemanly exterior, he’s not to be trusted.
Jorge is considering it. I can tell from the way he swipes his thumb over his lips. And I know why.
Jorge is a cheater.
He fixed the game by colluding with the dealer at the table. The dealers are supposed to be neutral, but Jorge ensured one of them was in his pocket by offering a sizable percentage of his winnings. It’s the oldest scam in the book, a method cheats have used for centuries.
I heard his men whispering about it, this is what Jorge does. He isn’t reckless or flashy. He’ll lose a few hands, so no one looks at him too closely, but he always makes sure to win when it counts. Like now. He wouldn’t risk losing my hand in marriage unless it was a guaranteed win.
The men sitting around this table might be ruthless and corrupt, but they live by their own moral code. Not Jorge. He only cares about the final payout. And right now, he stands to risk nothing, all he knows is he’ll line his pockets handsomely by the end of the night.
My throat constricts as I wait to see what will happen.
“Okay.” Jorge’s voice is light, taunting. “Let’s play.”
“Excellent.” Daniil turns to the dealer. “Mario, you deserve a break, why don’t you clock out for the night.”
Mario hesitates. He looks at Jorge with panic in his eyes. “That’s okay, I’m fine.” He laughs nervously.
Daniil’s jaw hardens. “That wasn’t a suggestion.” He tosses a ten-thousand-dollar chip his way. “Grigory will take your place.”
Jorge tries to intervene. “Don’t be silly, Kozlov, just play the hand. No point in changing dealers now.”
Daniil doesn’t throw around accusations, but he knows. He knows Jorge has been cheating all night, and he’s tolerated it. Until now. He leans back in his seat, crossing his muscular arms casually across his broad chest. The tension in the room is palpable, and if weapons were allowed in here, I have no doubt everyone would be reaching for their piece.
Jorge knows better than to push the issue; that’s as good as an admittance of guilt. Instead, he rolls his shoulders and tosses back the rest of his whisky as Mario leaves the table, head hung low, for another dealer to take his place. The first thing Grigory does is break out a fresh deck of cards.
Daniil smirks and rubs his hands. “Now where were we?”
The blood whooshes in my ears, drowning out the noise of the room. I can’t focus, I can’t do anything but grip the seat of my chair tightly and pray to the gambling gods that somehow Jorge wins. Without cheating, Jorge is a mediocre player at best, and I don’t know what will happen if he loses this hand. What could Daniil possibly want with me? I was fooled by his friendly smile, his easy charm. He’s as twisted as the rest of them. An amber-eyed wolf waiting to make me his dinner, and I’m powerless to object.
I can’t bear to look at the play, so I keep my eyes on my lap, my hands fidgeting with the silky material of my dress, unable to be still. The absurdity of this moment isn’t lost on me—my fate will be determined by two ruthless gangsters and a pack of playing cards.
Fuck me.
“Four of a kind.” Daniil’s sharp voice echoes off the walls of the now silent room.
My heart beats so wildly I think it may thump out of my chest. Even I know what that means. It’s a winning hand; one that can only be beaten by a straight or royal flush. And judging by the look of absolute shock on Jorge’s face, that’s not what he possesses.
My eyes snap to the table. Four kings are laid out on the green felt, that damn poker chip still flipping between Daniil’s thumb and forefinger. I follow the line of his forearm up to his bicep, then up to his shoulder, and up and up until he’s staring back at me, his expression stoic, except for a little curl of his lips.
Dread, thick and heavy, floods my bloodstream.
I’m Kozlov property now. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.
CHAPTERTHREE