Page 45 of Bound in Ruin

She looks back at me one last time. I simply hold her eye, take my seat at the head of the table, and motion for the dealer to cut the deck.

The chips fall across the felt with a quiet, rhythmically lethal click.

I play with accuracy, keeping my hands light on the cards and my face completely unreadable. It would be effortless to strip them down to their cuff links. I can read the tells written across their faces like cheap print: Abram leans into his right shoulder when he's bluffing, Marcus's jaw tightens whenever he holds a paired hand, and Yulian has a subtle habit of tapping his index finger on the mahogany rim before raising the pot.

I win three hands in a row, pulling in moderate stacks without raising an eyebrow. But on the fourth, when the river brings me a full house that could easily wipe out Yulian's entire buy-in, I quietly fold.

Winning everything isn't the goal tonight. Men like Abram, Marcus, and Yulian live on fragile, towering egos. If I strip them completely bare on the green felt and wipe the table with their pride, it triggers a different kind of desperation.

Bitter men make volatile allies, and I prefer to keep these three docile beneath me—fed just enough victory to stay comfortable but restrained enough to remember who allows them to sit at this table.

We play through several rounds, the stack of chips shifting between us like a controlled tide. I let Marcus take a substantial pot off a modest flush, watching the tension leave his shoulders as he chuckles, swelling with unearned confidence.

Abram lands a high card turn that keeps him in the green, while Yulian holds his own just enough to stay satisfied. I stay in the middle—dominant enough to command respect, but modest enough to let them feel like contenders.

Beside the table, the wives' low chatter serves as background noise to the clinking of crystal glasses and the smooth slide of cards across the green baize.

Every now and then, I catch Rosalia in the corner of my vision. She sits near the lounge area, stiff as a statue, enduring the backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive scrutiny of the council wives with a tightly locked jaw.

After nearly three hours, the white-vested floor manager steps back into the private alcove, executing an immaculate bow.

"Gentlemen, your meal is served in the private dining salon," he announces softly.

Abram scoops his remaining chips toward the dealer with a pleased grunt, tossing his silk napkin onto the felt. "Timing couldn't be better. I'm famished."

"A fine game, boss," Marcus says, standing up and buttoning his jacket, clearly puffed up from his late-hand victory. "Though I reckon another hour and I would have cleaned you out."

"Perhaps next time, Marcus," I reply smoothly, standing up and flattening the lapels of my suit.

I step away from the table and extend an arm toward Rosalia, who rises almost instantly from the couch, eager to escape the women's circle. As her fingers rest lightly on my forearm, I feel the residual tension hummed into her skin.

"Dinner," I murmur for her ears only. "Try not to choke on the hypocrisy."

She bites back a laugh, a quiet, involuntary huff of air against my arm as we walk toward the private dining room. We take our seats around a massive mahogany table lit by muted crystal sconces.

Course after course arrives with seamless timing: seared scallop carpaccio, roasted quail over truffle cream, rich cuts of wagyu paired with vintage cabernet. The conversation drifts across expected territory—offshore investments, private port concessions, and the shifting political landscape in the city. Abram, Marcus, and Yulian hold court, while their wives interject with rehearsed laughter and practiced elegance.

Rosalia plays her part quietly, navigating the silverware with effortless composure. But Elena can only hold her tongue for so long.

"Rosalia, dear," Elena coos, leaning across the table during the fourth course, her fork delicately balancing a slice of venison. Her voice is dipped in sugar, but the eyes are pure venom. "We were all just wondering... it must be quite an adjustment for you, coming into Dominic’s world. Some people find the background requirements rather... intimidating. Tell us, where did you complete your education?"

The room settles into a loaded, expectant quiet. Abram sips his wine, hiding a smirk, while Beatrice and Anya watch with bright, gleeful eyes, waiting to see the outsider squirm.

I don't interrupt. I tilt my glass, watching Rosalia over the rim.

I know her well enough now, and I’m as excited as the women to hear her answer. Though for different reasons. She’s about to sweep the floor with Elena.

Rosalia doesn't flinch. She sets her linen napkin down on the polished mahogany, dabbed lightly at the corner of her mouth, and fixes Elena with a smile that could freeze liquid silver.

"My education taught me how to read people before they even open their mouths, Elena," Rosalia says smoothly, her tone as warm and inviting as a summer afternoon. "It’s a remarkably useful skill. For instance, it allows me to spot the difference between genuine pedigree and women who simply spent their years perfecting their husbands' favorite accents."

Aha!

I knew it! Even funnier than I anticipated. I would have laughed if I wasn’t the head of this table.

A sharp beat of stunned silence hangs in the air.

Then, Beatrice lets out a sudden bark of laughter she can't quite contain. Anya covers her mouth with a manicured hand, her shoulders shaking, while Yulian lets out a low, booming chuckle from the end of the table. Elena’s face turns pale, her lips pressing into a thin, white line as she struggles to find a retort that won't make her look even more foolish.