“She yours?” he asks,voice low.
I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The word comes out faster than I intend. Harder.
Ayla’s fingers still for half a second on a tower of chips, then move again, smooth and steady. She doesn’t look back, but I see the way her shoulders straighten.
Olsen nods.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Maksim. Especially when you start making ties.”
“I am the game,” I reply.
The dealer pushes another small pot toward Ayla. She lets out a soft huff through her nose, almost a laugh, and for a second, the casino’s noise fades under the sound of it.
My focus is already where it needs to be. On the woman at my table, not the man who’s already lost.
“Enjoy your evening, Mayor,” I say, already dismissing him, my hand settling firmly on Ayla’s shoulder. “If you want another shot, book a seat.”
His brow creases. “At the table?”
“At the table. At city hall. Doesn’t matter.” I give his stack of chips—a shallow, pathetic thing now, a pointed look. “The house loves a man who’s willing to lose.”
He gets it. He doesn’t like it.
But he gets it.
Olsen straightens his tie again like that’ll fix anything and steps back from the table, retreating with the same false dignity all desperate men wear when they realize they’re no longer being courted, they’re being tolerated.
Barely.
I lean down, mouth close to Ayla’s ear, letting the heat of my breath skate over her skin.
“Having fun, Beda?” I murmur.
She doesn’t look at me. Just flicks a chip into the pot with a practiced little flick of her wrist.
“Watching me win, Maksim?”
I watch the way her lips curve, the way victory looks on her.
“No,” I breathe. “Just watching you.”
***
The living room in this goddamn estate feels like a cage tonight; same heavy drapes, same polished wood that always smells faintly of old money and older blood. I hate it here.
Always have.
Too many eyes in the walls, too many ghosts in the corners. But the compound demands these meetings, and tonight the house is packed: my men sprawled across leather chairs and sofas, smoke curling from cigarettes, low voices trading intel on the Turks like it’s just another Tuesday.
Ayla sits beside me on the wide sectional. Close enough that her thigh brushes mine every time she shifts. She’s wearing those black fishnets I bought her—the ones I made her try on in the bedroom two days ago while I watched from the armchair like a starving man. Tonight they disappear under the hem of tiny denim shorts. Her legs are crossed, one foot bouncing slightly, the diamond webbing of the nets catching the lamplight every time she moves.
I shouldbe listening.
Ivan is droning on about border shipments, intercepted calls, a possible meeting next month. Vaska leans forward, elbows on knees, laying out contingencies. Someone mentions the warehouse hit from last week. I nod when it’s expected, grunt when it’s required. But the words slide off me like rain on glass.
Because I know what she feels like now.
