Fails instantly. The cards slip everywhere. It’s like they’re actively rejecting him. It’s… impressive, honestly. I’ve never seen a deck fight for its life like that.
He looks at me, pissed, with thatwhy you and not me look.
I gently take the cards back from his hands, brushing his fingers for half a second.
"Watch my hands, Fontana," I say quietly.
And I do it slowly.
His head moves with my hands, fully entranced, like he’s a marionette and I’m pulling the strings.
It’s… weirdly fun. Weirdly intimate.
Then I snap the deck closed and place it on the table.
Hard.
"You zoned out," I tell him. "Wake up."
Gio sits there looking confident as hell.
And I get it. I really do.
He probably wins at everything, races, fights, arguments. He has that face that saysI don’t lose. Good for him.
But guess what? I’m used to winning too now.
And God, do I want to beat him. Like… really beat him. Not just “oh good game” beat him.
I mean humble the shit out of him. Take that stupid smirk off his face for five whole seconds. Etch a little crack into that giant ego of his.
In any other situation, I wouldn’t care this much.
It’s just cards. It’s a game. Whatever.
But him? No. He needs the lesson. Somebody has to drag him off his imaginary throne.
And honestly? It should be me. I owe that to little Rava, the kid he used to torment, tease, outshine, talk over.
The kid who never stood a chance against him.
So yeah. Tonight? I’m not folding.
I keep my shoulders relaxed. This should be easy. People who talk too much in games like this? They’re justbeggingto lose.
First round starts quiet. A few chips tossed. A few bluffs.
I stay out. Watch.
I study the way Gio leans back when he’s confident, and how he taps his thumb when he isn’t. Cute.
The way the guy next to me scratches his chin every single time he lies. The girl across the table tilts her head left when she has something good, like a damn tell she doesn’t even know she gives.
And then comes the hand that matters. It’s me and Gio. Of course. The others folded early.
It’s just the two of us now, facing each other across the table. He grins. "Damn, Ravioli…" he mutters, shaking his head.
I glare.
