Then Rafe starts laughing. "Holy shit. She's actually honest. Dante, you found the only woman in New York who doesn't bullshit."
"It's one of her more annoying qualities," Dante says, but there's something warm in his voice.
"I like her," Alessia announces. "She doesn't pretend everything's fine when it's clearly not."
"Why would I pretend?" I arrange my cards. "You all know exactly how this started. Might as well be honest about it."
"Most women would be too proud to admit it," Enzo observes.
"Most women probably have better options than I did." I place my bet. "My mother's dying of cancer. Adrian used me to pay his debts. Dante made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Here I am. No point pretending it's a fairy tale."
"But you're still here," Matteo says. "That's interesting."
"That's survival," I correct. “I need to keep my mother safe.”
"Is it?" His eyes are sharp, assessing. "Because from where I'm sitting, you don't look like someone who's just surviving."
I don't know how to answer that, so I don't.
The game begins, and I expect them to go easy on me. They don't.
Rafe bets aggressively. Enzo plays conservatively. Luca watches everything. Matteo treats it like war.
And Dante? Dante plays like he does everything else—calculated, precise, always three moves ahead.
But I've been playing poker since I was twelve. Mom taught me during her first round of chemo, when we needed something to do besides worry.
I fold when I should fold. Bet when I should bet. Bluff exactly twice.
And I win.
Not every hand. But enough that Rafe whistles appreciation and even Enzo looks impressed.
"She's a hustler," Matteo says after I take a particularly large pot. "Dante, you brought a hustler to poker night."
"I brought my girlfriend to poker night," Dante corrects. "The hustling is a bonus."
"Where'd you learn to play like that?" Luca asks.
"My mother." I stack my chips. "She always said if you're going to gamble, you better know the odds."
"Smart woman," Alessia says.
"She is." My throat tightens. "Very smart."
Dante's hand finds my thigh again, squeezes once. Understanding.
The night continues. The men get progressively more drunk—except Dante, who sticks to water. The conversation gets cruder, testing me with jokes and innuendo that would make my students' parents faint.
I fire back with wit sharp enough to make them laugh. Make them respect me.
And slowly, I realize—they like me.
Not because I'm Dante's supposed girlfriend. But because I refuse to be intimidated and I can hold my own at their table, in their world.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dante
