1
Cristiano
The back room of the Rosso Nero smells like cigarette smoke, spilled wine, and fear. Alfonso Galbiati sits in a wooden chair in the center of the room, his expensive shirt wrinkled, his bottom lip split and swelling. Blood has dried in a thin line down his chin. He’s trying very hard to look tough, but his hands are clenched and his eyes are sullen.
I drag a chair across the floor and position it directly in front of Alfonso. The screech of wood on concrete makes him flinch.
Good.
He should be nervous.
When I sit down, our knees almost touch. Alfonso meets my eyes with an arrogant sneer, like I’m beneath him.
I smile.
“Alfonso.” I lean back in my chair, relaxed. Friendly, even. “Mio amico. Do you know why you’re here?”
The Italian words pass smoothly over my tongue. These past five years in Italy, I’ve become fluent.
“Because your animals dragged me off the tables like I’m some kind of criminal.” His voice comes out nasal, petulant. “My father is going to hear about this. You can’t just—”
“I warned you,” I say, cutting him off. “Last month. Do you remember? I told you that if you were caught cheating at my tables again, there would be consequences.”
One warning was more than generous.
I don’t like my generosity being thrown in my face.
“I wasn’t cheating.” He says it automatically, like he’s recited the same lie a hundred times to a hundred different authority figures who never pushed back. “Your dealer made a mistake. I was counting cards, that’s not illegal. It’s strategy.”
Behind him, Nico shifts his weight. Paulo coughs into his fist, a sound that might be a laugh. They’ve both heard the dealer’s account. They know exactly what Alfonso was doing. Marking cards with a thumbnail, signaling to a friend across the room. Amateur-hour shit that insults everyone’s intelligence.
But I don’t bring that up. Not yet.
“Counting cards,” I repeat, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s an impressive skill. You must have a very good memory.”
Alfonso’s shoulders relax slightly. “I do. I’ve always been good with numbers.”
“I can see that.” I gesture at his clothes, his watch. “Your father’s given you a good education. Expensive things. Plenty of his money to splash around.”
“I make my own money because I’m fucking good at cards.” There’s pride in his voice now. He’s forgotten the split lip, the blood, and the men standing behind him with folded arms.
“You’re an intelligent man.Molto intelligente.And yet here you are, in the back room of my gambling den, insisting you were just counting cards.” I let the words hang for a moment. “Alfonso, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t think you were counting cards. I think you were cheating.”
His face flushes. “I wasn’t—”
“But I’m willing to give you a chance to explain yourself.” I lean forward, hands on my knees, gazing into his eyes and making myself seem friendly. Nonthreatening. “Sometimes men make mistakes. Sometimes they think they’re smarter than everyone else in the room, and they try something stupid. It happens.” I shrug. “I’ve done it myself.”
He blinks at me, caught off guard by the admission.
“The thing is,” I continue, keeping my voice warm and reasonable. “I can’t have people thinking they can cheat at my tables. It’s bad for business. You understand that, right? If word gets out that someone got away with marking cards, every two-bit hustler in the city will try the same thing.”
“I didn’t mark any cards,” he mutters, but there’s less conviction in his voice now.
“All right, Alfonso.” I smile again. “But my dealer says otherwise. And my dealer has worked for me for three years without a single complaint. So either he’s lying—which would be very strange, since he has nothing to gain from it—or you’re lying.”
Alfonso’s jaw tightens. He looks away, staring at the wall.
“Here’s what I think happened,” I say, my voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial, like we’re friends sharing a secret. “I think you came into my casino with your friend. I think you’d had a few drinks, maybe you were feeling confident, and you thought you could pull something off. Mark a few cards, win a little money, have a story to tell later.” I pause. “Am I close?”
