He doesn’t answer.
“The problem is, Alfonso, this isn’t the first time. We had this exact conversation last month.”
“You can’t do anything to me.” His voice rises, defensive and whiny. “My father—”
“Your father,” I interrupt, “would be very disappointed to hear that his son is a cheat and a liar.”
The color drains from his face.
“Don Rodrigo is a good man,” I continue. “An honorable man. A man who values his reputation.” I tilt my head, studying him. “How do you think he’d feel if I called him right now and told him what you’ve been doing? Cheating. Lying about it. Bringing shame to the Galbiati name.”
Alfonso’s hands are shaking now. The sneer is gone, replaced by something that looks like panic.
“Or,” I say slowly, “you could tell me the truth. Right here, right now. You could admit what you did, apologize, and we could put this whole ugly business behind us.”
“I…” He swallows hard. His eyes dart to Nico and Paulo, then back to me. “I wasn’t…”
“Alfonso.” I lean in closer, my voice soft and almost kind. “All I want is the truth. That’s all. Just tell me what really happened, and we can move on. I promise, it’ll be easier if you’re honest with me now.”
The silence stretches. I can see him weighing his options. Pride versus survival. The lies he’s told himself versus the reality sitting in front of him.
Behind him, my men are perfectly still. A reminder of where he is and how badly he’s fucked up.
Finally, Alfonso’s shoulders slump.
“I was marking the cards,” he mutters.
The admission is so quiet I almost miss it.
“What was that?” I ask. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
His voice is stronger this time, laced with shame and anger at himself. “I was marking the cards. With my thumbnail. I’m sorry. I was drunk and stupid, and I thought I could get away with it.”
There it is.
Behind Alfonso, Nico’s eyebrows rise slightly. Paulo’s mouth curves into a smile as he glances at me. Alfonso Galbiati, the spoiled son of Don Rodrigo, has never admitted to being wrong in his entire life. And I just got him to confess.
“There.” I reach out and pat his cheek, my hand lingering for just a moment. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? You did well, Alfonso. I’m proud of you.”
He looks up at me, and for the first time tonight, there’s something like hope in his eyes. Like maybe this will all be okay. Like maybe I’ll let him walk out of here with nothing worse than a bruised ego and a lesson learned.
I stand up, my chair scraping back. Alfonso watches me, wary but hopeful.
“You know,” I say conversationally, “my father used to say that a man who can’t admit his mistakes isn’t a man at all. He’s a child.” I move behind him, my footsteps slow and casual. “And you just proved you’re not a child anymore, Alfonso. You told the truth. That takes courage.”
I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders. He’s tense beneath my touch, but he doesn’t try to pull away.
“The problem is,” I continue, my voice turning to ice, “I already gave you a warning, and you ignored it.”
My hand slides into my pocket and closes around the flick knife.
My grip on Alfonso’s shoulder tightens mercilessly, pinning him in place. I lean down so my lips are close to his ear.
“You thought I was soft,” I seethe. “You thought because I’m American, because I smile and talk nicely, that I wouldn’t do anything. That your father’s name would protect you.”
The knife opens with a click. I drive the blade into the side of his throat and twist.
Alfonso makes a wet, choking sound. His hands fly to his neck, but it’s too late. Blood pours between his fingers, hot and red, spraying across the concrete floor.
