Page 38 of Unforgivable Ties

“Uh, I’m not really dressed correctly. I can just wait in the car.”

I gestured to my jeans and t-shirt. I was dressed for a long day of patching up criminals, not going to a lounge.

“We’re going in the side entrance.”

“We’ll still be inside the building,” I huffed, crossing my arms.

“Just follow me, alright?” he said, getting out of the car.

With a deep sigh of exasperation, I unbuckled my seatbelt and followed him to the side alley, the echo of our footsteps drowned out by the muted bass from inside.

The side entrance was much less glamorous compared to the front facade; a metal door tucked away in shadows, guarded by a burly bouncer who straightened up at the sight of Vincenzo. A gruff nod passed between them, and we stepped into a narrow, dimly lit hallway.

We turned right, and there was a flight of stairs leading us into an underground area.

“This seems sketchy...” I said hesitantly, stopping at the top of the stairs.

“It’s hardly sketchy compared to some of the stuff I do,” he replied, turning to look at me. “It will be fine.”

“If you say so,” I sighed, following him down the stairs. “But I swear to god if the cops raid this place while I’m here, I’m going to be the one to kill you.”

“Oh? You think you’ll succeed over criminals who’ve tried for years?” he said, a cocky smirk on his lips.

Tried for years?What if one day I came home from school and he just wasn’t there? My heart twisted at the thought. I complained about him trapping me in his mafia lifestyle, but really, I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it.

“I know I would,” I said. “If you get me kicked out of med school because of your shady lifestyle, I’d have nothing left to lose.”

“I think you’ll have to improve your assassin skills first, Steph,” he said.

What the hell. Vincenzo just gave me a nickname that wasn’t his condescending use of “Doc.” My heart was working in overdrive, trying to dissect what it meant. Probably nothing, but what if it did mean something?

He pushed the door open, and I was amazed at what I saw. A—presumably—illegal gambling den was spread out below us, populated by men and women in sharp suits and cocktail dresses. Surprisingly enough, it was clean, well-lit, and filled with an air of sophistication that I had not expected.

“I’m still underdressed,” I muttered to him.

“Who cares? You look good no matter what you wear.”

My brain short-circuited, but before I could process his words, he steered me towards a table tucked away in a quieter corner.

“I need to take care of something in the back,” he said. “You should watch what’s going on in here. It’s fun.”

“Watching people lose their money and dignity?”

“You’d be surprised how entertaining it can be,” he said, glancing at the crowd.

Before I could make another sarcastic comment, he sauntered through the crowd, leaving me alone in a sea of strangers. I cursed him silently—why couldn’t he just let me stay in the car?

I watched from afar as money was exchanged and cards were dealt. The atmosphere was tense, but surprisingly lighthearted. Laughter echoed from various corners, and glasses clinked in a toast to temporary victories. The losers grumbled, the winners gloated, and that ever-constant undercurrent of anticipation kept everyone on their toes.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a look at up close. I moved from my obscure corner, heading towards what looked to be a particularly high-stakes game. I hovered behind them quietly, not wanting to interrupt with my curious gaze.

I didn’t know much about poker, but I did know there were supposed to be chips in the middle of the table. This wasn’t thecase. In the middle of the table were not chips, but artifacts. It seemed these high-rollers weren’t gambling with mere money. Ancient, glittering jewelry, delicate statuettes, miniature works of art from civilization’s dawn—the ante here was history itself.

I wished I knew more about poker as the game went on. People put their cards on the table, called out terms I wasn’t familiar with and eyed each other with a calculating intensity that was almost terrifying.

I was pretty sure a man in his early thirties was winning. He had the most artifacts next to him, and although the other players tried to hide it, I could see their disdain for him.

The man was strikingly attractive, with dark hair slicked back and a sharp, angular face. His eyes were icy blue, and they glittered with an uncanny intelligence as he casually surveyed his opponents. He had an air of arrogance around him—not in the way that he acted or spoke, but simply in the way he carried himself. He seemed to think he was the most important person in the room.

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