Page 51 of Milo

"Or maybe he overestimates her beauty," the younger man to his right adds, his thin lips twisting into a grin as his blue eyes glide across my shimmering floor-length gown. "All that glitters is not always gold."

Milo's lips curl up into a controlled and cool smile. "Even the Bard himself would find that statement to be sheer folly.”

He knows his literature. And his beauty. Smart man.

Poker chips are placed in front of each player and the dealer begins shuffling. Servers offer Marchello, Milo, and myself a drink and I glance over to Milo, unable to hide my grin as I take a martini off the tray.

"The who?" the young man asks, his accent throwing me off. Whereas Henri has a definite Parisian flair to his tone, this man sounds like a foreigner.

"Andre," Henri snaps, his deep voice issuing a warning as he meets Milo's cold gaze. "He is new, I apologize."

Andre grimaces, taking a peek at the cards placed in front of him. His left eyebrow rises just a millimeter, the corner of his lip twitching. Not a good hand, I'd guess.

"Think nothing of it.” Milo glides his two cards between his fingers, his expression neutral as he scans his hand. Hmm. I can't get a read. He must be a seasoned player.

Before looking at my own cards, I carefully and discreetly examine the reactions from the five men sitting around me. None of them possess overtly strong reactions, other than Andre; his frustration is almost laughable.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I take a gander at my own hand. Jack and a 3. Both Spades. Could be worse. I could have whatever Andre's cards are.

With an ante of ten thousand euros, my competitive side emerges as we begin playing. Milo and Henri chat as if there are not thousands of euros in the pot. Although I suppose for them, this is the equivalent of playing penny slots.

The flop is kind to me, allowing for a pair of Jacks, the other two cards an Ace of clubs, and Queen of spades.

"Kiara?" Call or fold?" Milo asks, giving me a sly smile.

"Call.” I toss red chips into the middle of the table. "Maybe I'm a gambler as well."

Andre takes a minute to mull over whether he should call or fold which surprises me. He clearly doesn't have a good hand.

Why risk it?

"Call," he states in a self-assured tone. I let out a small chuckle, covering my mouth. Five sets of eyes dart toward me, all of them amused except for Andre's. "Did I miss something funny?"

I clear my throat, taking a sip of my vodka martini. "No, not at all. I just remembered a joke, that's all."

The game continues. The turn is a 7 of spades. Oh, one more spade, and I have a flush. I keep my expression muted.

"I enjoy a good joke," Andre says, leaning his forearms on the playing table. "Care to share, Kiara?"

"Um..." I hum as Henri's more silent associate raises. "It's more of an inside joke. You had to have been there."

"Of course.” Andre reclines back into his seat, studying me intently before his gaze darts to Milo. "You must have many inside jokes. I hear Santi Oscuri is full of comedians."

Wow. He must be super new. I'm fairly certain that name is to remain unspoken.

"Yes," Milo replies in a flat tone, calling the raise as I do the same thing. Fuck it at this point; go big or go home. "But we are nowhere near as comical as you Frenchmen."

Henri lets out a deep laugh, cutting the building tension. "You are not wrong, my friend. Laughter feeds the soul and we Parisians, we are full of soul."

"Are you full of soul as well, Andre?" I ask casually, using this as an in. "How long have you lived in Paris?"

Milo keeps his expression neutral, his eyebrows perking up just a smidgen but not enough to insinuate he's skeptical of our lanky friend.

"I was born in Germany, Kiara," he replies in a smooth tone. "But I grew up in Paris, so yes, I would say my soul is quite full."

"Where in Germany were you born?" I ask in his native tongue, cocking my head to the side, instantly regretting the decision to show my cards.

Shit. They're not supposed to know. Fuck fuck fuck.

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