Page 130 of Don’t Say Mafia

“You’ll see.”

Jagger led me down a hallway he hadn’t shown me before and stopped in front of double doors at the end. He pushed them open, revealing a private poker room that made the one downstairs look like a dress rehearsal. A professional table sat in the center beneath soft recessed lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Strip in an insane rich-person backdrop.

“This seems to be a serious room for someone who only plays occasionally,” I murmured, walking toward the table.

“Did I say I play occasionally?” he asked as he moved past me to a built-in cabinet along the wall and slid open a drawer. From inside, he pulled out a fresh deck of cards, still sealed in cellophane. He peeled it off with unhurried precision, cracked the deck open, and then—without looking at his hands—began shuffling. Not the clumsy, overhand shuffle I’d been doing downstairs. He riffled the cards in the air, split the deck cleanly in two, and bridged them together with a soft snap that sounded almost like applause. The cards arced and settled with practiced ease, fluid and controlled.

I leaned against the table, watching his hands. “You were not doing that downstairs.”

“No,” he agreed as he shuffled again, this time letting the cards cascade from one hand to the other in a smooth ribbon. The way he said it sent a flicker of awareness through me.

“You’re hiding something,” I said.

He stepped around the table and pulled out my chair, waiting until I sat before moving to his own. “Maybe I was just being polite downstairs.”

“‘Polite,’” I repeated.

“With my friends,” he clarified.

“And now?”

He rested his forearms on the table, the deck poised between his fingers. “Now,” he said softly, “it’s just us.”

A thrill of danger moved through me, like I’d just realized I’d been playing in the shallow end and hadn’t noticed the deep water behind me. I tried to ignore how the chair felt cool against my overheated skin . . . how every shift of my thighs rubbed the lace of my thong against my swollen clit.

He shuffled the deck slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Last chance to back out,” he said softly.

I lifted my chin. “Deal,” I said.

Jagger dealt the cards with a lazy precision, the deck whispering across the felt. I picked up my two cards—an ace and king of the same suit—and felt a small flicker of confidence. I’d been winning downstairs. Maybe my streak wasn’t over.

He laid three cards face up in the middle of the table. One of them matched mine.

That was promising.

I tapped the table instead of betting right away, pretending I wasn’t pleased. He placed a small stack of chips in the center, and I matched it.

Jagger turned over another card.

My hand was still solid. Not unbeatable, but strong enough to keep me steady. This time I bet first, pushing a few chips forward like I was testing how far he’d follow me. He called immediately, no hesitation.

Then he revealed the final card.

I looked down at my cards again, then back up at him. “You’re bluffing,” I said, trying to sound confident instead of hopeful.

His expression didn’t change. “Am I?”

I studied him carefully, searching for something—any flicker of a twitch, a smirk, a tell I could latch on to. There was nothing. Downstairs he’d been easier to read . . . Up here, though, it was like he was carved from stone.

I exhaled slowly and pushed the rest of my chips forward. “Fine. I’m in.”

For a beat, he just looked at me. Then he leaned back slightly and turned his cards over.

A pair. That was it.

“That’s . . . that’s all you have?” I asked.

“That’s all I have.”