I already have a plan in mind. This is either going to work brilliantly or blow up in my face spectacularly.
Possibly both.
But doing nothing isn't an option.
If I'm going down, I'm going down swinging.
And taking Santino's sanity with me.
Chapter 12: Santino
The poker game is taking place in a private room above a restaurant in the old quarter of Genoa, the kind of establishment that doesn't advertise its existence with a name on the door.
This is the kind of place where serious money changes hands in hushed tones, where deals are made over cards and cognac, where nobody asks questions about the source of the cash piled on the table. Discretion is a currency here, worth more than the euros being wagered.
There are six of us seated around the felt-covered table tonight. Myself. Dmitri Volkov and his brother Alexei—Russians who control the northern shipping lanes with an iron fist and connections that reach all the way to Moscow. Carlo Salvatore, who runs most of the gambling operations in the city through a network of establishments both legitimate and otherwise. And two others, associates of the Volkovs whose names I don't care to remember because they're not important enough to warrant the mental space.
The stakes tonight are high. Very high. This isn't really about the money, though there's plenty of that scattered across the green felt—easily a hundred thousand euros in play. It's about power dynamics. Territory negotiations. Respect earned and respect given. Every hand is a test, every bet a statement.
I'm currently up by thirty thousand euros, a comfortable lead that's making me look good. Dmitri is down by approximately the same amount, his losses matching my gains almost exactly. He's not happy about it, his jaw tight, his eyescalculating as he tries to read my tells and find a weakness to exploit.
My phone has been buzzing insistently in my jacket pocket for the last hour, a persistent vibration that I've been deliberately ignoring. I know without checking who's calling and texting. It's Liana. It's always Liana.
Since Friday night, since she left half her life scattered throughout my apartment like territorial markers, she's been texting me constantly. Questions about how my day went. Photos of furniture and decorative items she wants to buy for "our place." Suggestions for weekend plans that invariably involve her spending more time in my personal space. The messages come at all hours, a steady stream of exclamation points and heart emojis.
I haven't responded to most of them. I need space to think clearly. I need distance to figure out what the hell is actually happening between us without her particular brand of chaos clouding my judgment and making rational thought impossible.
"Your bet, Marcello," Carlo says, pulling me back to the present moment.
I look down at my cards, assessing the hand. A strong combination. Not unbeatable, but definitely worth playing aggressively.
I push twenty thousand euros into the center of the table with confidence.
Dmitri's eyes narrow as he watches me, trying to read my expression, searching for any tell that might reveal whether I'm bluffing or holding genuine strength. Good luck with that. I've been playing poker since I was sixteen, and my face doesn't give anything away.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. And again. And again. Three times in rapid succession.
"Someone is very eager to reach you," Dmitri observes in his heavy Russian accent, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"It's nothing," I say dismissively, keeping my attention on the cards.
"A woman?" Alexei grins, leaning back in his chair. "It's always a woman when a man ignores his phone with that particular expression. Trust me, I know that look."
"My fiancée," I admit, seeing no point in lying when they'll find out eventually anyway.
"Ah, the Costa girl." Dmitri leans back in his chair. "I heard about that arrangement between your families. Very advantageous for you, taking over their operations."
"It's mutually beneficial," I correct. "Both families gain from the alliance."
"I'm sure," he says, his tone suggesting he thinks otherwise, that he sees exactly what this marriage contract really represents. "Although I hear she is spirited. That's the word being used in certain circles."
Word travels fast in our world. Too fast. I make a mental note to have a conversation with my crew about discretion.
"She's fine," I say curtly, hoping to end this line of conversation.
Carlo laughs, the sound carrying across the table. "Fine? That's one way to describe it. I heard she waved your gun around like it was a toy. Made your entire crew nervous."
Fuck. Does everyone in the city know about that incident? I'm going to kill Paulie.
