Page 1 of Unspoken Obsession

FRANCESCA

Blackjack is my escape.

Not because I love gambling, but because it's the only thing I control.

I know it sounds silly - for a high stress card game to be an escape - but that's just what it became for me.

It started innocently enough—a game to pass the time. Then I realized I had a skill most don't. Counting cards isn't illegal, but it might as well be. In the mafia world, the only sin worse than getting caught would be disrespecting my father. Antonio Musetti rules these streets like a king—but in the world of Blackjack, I am queen. His reach doesn't extend here.

It thrills me to get away with it because, in all other aspects of my life, I have to stay in line, do what my father tells me to, and never question his rules.

But Blackjack is my secret way to rebel against the system that controls my every move.

There is a charity gala here at the casino this evening. It had started already, but I was fashionably late and sneaked in a quick game of Blackjack, seeing as I seldom get time to play because my father is always breathing over my shoulder.

For me, it's not about the money. It's all about the skill, the focus, and proving myself.

I'm not even supposed to be here. My father hates it when I come to this casino. He only gave me permission because of the event.

If he found out I came earlier to play cards, I would be in a lot of trouble.

I kept my head down and never looked up at the security cameras. I am aware of their locations. It's easy to avoid being seen when I need to be invisible.

I learned some of my special skills because I had no choice growing up in my family. There will be no evidence I was here playing cards tonight. Nothing my father could find and hold against me.

But right now, none of that matters. Right now, it's just me and the cards.

The dealer's eyes flick over to me, subtle but cautious. I see the tension in his wrist as he deals me another card. He knows. They all know. I've been counting cards for two hours, and I haven't lost a single hand. But I never do.

I lift my eyes from the table and meet his gaze, keeping my expression neutral.

"Hit me," I say, my voice smooth.

The man next to me lets out a slow, low whistle. He's already folded, hands raised in defeat after busting three hands ago. "You're playing with fire, sweetheart."

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He reeks of cheap cologne and desperation. A regular in a city that chews men like him up. I give him a small, dismissive smile. "I like fire."

I rarely get to sneak out past my father. My ruthlessly controlling father plans out every single aspect of my life. All of my decisions are made for me. I don't even get to choose the color sweater I want to wear for dinner.

Tonight though - at this charity masquerade ball - my father can't make it, and I am attending alone. He had to leave Las Vegas for two nights. Something about business emergencies. I don't give a shit about where or why he's gone. All I care about is that I get two days of freedom. Some breathing room.

What's even more entertaining is that because I'll be wearing a mask tonight, no one will know my true identity and none of his cronies can tattle on me for having fun.

So, I plan to make the night count.

The dealer slides a card toward me. I don't need to look at it to know.

"The lady in the gold dress wins," he announces, his voice carefully controlled, but I see the flicker of frustration in his eyes. I've taken this table for a ride, and he knows it. But he won't say anything. Not yet.

I can't win another round. It will be too obvious. I think it's time for me to cash out and head to the event. I've had my little thrill for the night. It's time to be a social butterfly.

Slipping off the stool, I gather up my chips and turn away from the table. This dress is skintight, and it's fine to stand and walk in, but sitting and then trying to get up is a bit of a challenge. I don't care because it is gorgeous - like straight off the cover of Vogue.

I never get to dress up, especially not this sexy, because I am never allowed out of the house. And when I get out of the house and my father is around, he dictates the type of dresses I may or may not wear.

I bought this dress this morning. I will need to conceal it in a garment bag and hang it in the back of my closet after tonight so that he never sees it.

It's too tight, and it dips too low at the back. That's what he would say. That I am inviting trouble and sending the wrong message to men. Well, men should learn to look and not touch.

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