Page 41 of High Stakes

I nod, giving her a reassuring smile. “Just keep your promise,” I remind her gently.

She nods, determination flickering in her eyes. “I will.”

The drive back to Leone’s mansion is silent, and Leone is brooding in the passenger seat, lost in his own thoughts. As we pull into the driveway, he finally speaks, his voice low as I reach for the door handle.

“You’ll remain,” he tells me, and I pause, glancing at him. Milo looks at us, and I wonder if he means to be in the car or something else. Reluctantly, I let Milo close the door.

Fifteen

Leone

The quiet in the car is a living thing, suffocating and dense; it seems to breathe on its own, making each breath I take harsher. I’m coiled tight, and every muscle tenses as memories of the night play on an endless loop in my head. Fallon’s profile is etched against the windowpane, her eyes distant. The depth of green there is like looking into a forest at dusk—dark, mysterious, impenetrable.

My thoughts spiral back to earlier. Fallon had been gone too long, and I was about to go find her. But then my father’s hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and restraining.

“No need,” he told me, his voice a low rumble. “She’s in the hall by the kitchen,” he says, and I glance at Milo, who is watching me.

I turn to him, my suspicion a live wire snapping in the air between us. “How do you know that?”

“I’m aware of everything that happens under my roof. I got a notification that someone was in the kitchen with your mother, motion detection.”

My father’s fingers brush over his phone. The screen springs to life with the grainy image of the kitchen. I lean forward, heart hammering, until they landed on someone slightly off-screen—my mother, a glass clutched in her unsteady grip.

“Damn it,” my father hisses through clenched teeth, “Where the fuck did Lorenzo go!”

He shoves his chair out and gets to his feet when my mother looks up, her eyes moving to the door, and Fallon steps in.

My own hands tighten into fists at the sight of my mother. So much for being sober. It is a struggle we have seen too many times, a routine that never ends well. The vodka, the trembling hands…

“Wait,” the word leaves my lips in a hiss, halting my father mid-rise. My focus remains glued to the screen where Fallon’s silhouette moves toward my mother, and I grab his phone, fiddling with the volume. She reaches for the glass cradled in my mother’s shaking grasp. A sob broke from my mother, a sound which claws at my chest.

I watched, my heart pounding against my ribcage, as Fallon did the unthinkable. Wondering why she would stop her. She not only coaxed the glass away but also stood as a shield when Lorenzo sauntered in and caught my mother, his presence like an oil slick on clean water. With a lie that flowed from her lips as easily as the breath she took, she protected my mother—swallowing down liquor.

Even my father stopped in his tracks to see how Fallon was handling her, but I could tell he didn’t expect Fallon to fend for her against one of his men. He is just like me, caught between being angry my mother was drinking and Fallon lied for her, but also shocked how Fallon stood her ground and didn’t throw my mother under the bus. My father stares at the screen thoughtfully.

However, when Lorenzo tried to force her to drink another, I was out of my seat. Rage bubbled up, hot and acidic in my throat. The room beyond the screen became my reality in mere moments as I stalked into the kitchen, the stench of alcohol assaulting my senses immediately.

The glass hovered inches from Fallon’s lips, her green eyes widening in shock—or was it relief? I didn’t pause to consider. My hand closed around the glass, its contents sloshing over the rim, and I brought it to my own lips.

The burn of the alcohol was nothing compared to the fire that raged within me. As the last drop slid down my throat, I met Fallon’s gaze and she stepped away from me as if she thought she was in trouble. Yet I hold her tight against me for a second, letting her calm me enough not to kill Lorenzo.

I shake the memory away as the engine’s purr fades into the night as we reach our home. My gaze keeps darting to Fallon, who’s nestled in the corner of the backseat. The shadows play across her features, but they can’t hide her nervousness. It still has me wondering about what game she is playing. She hates me yet stopped the man sneaking up on me in the warehouse and now defended my mother. What is she playing at?

“You'll remain,” I command, my voice slicing through the heavy silence cocooning us. There’s a weight to my words, an unspoken gravity which seems to make her pause.

Milo throws me a questioning look as he steps out of the driver’s side, his dark eyes probing for an explanation. Rocco follows suit, both men’s movements stiff with confusion. They linger, their forms silhouetted against the mansion’s grand entrance, but I dismiss them with a sharp jerk of my head. This is not their concern; this moment belongs to Fallon and me alone.

I focus on her, her green eyes reflecting oddly in the darkness of the car. She doesn’t flinch under my scrutiny, nor does she cower. Instead, she holds my stare.

“You surprised me tonight.” I begin, my voice low, the word almost a caress.

Her lips part, perhaps to offer a retort or an explanation, but I plow forward, cutting off any response. “Standing up to Lorenzo, putting yourself between him and my mother… Why?”

She shifts, her hands clenching in her lap, betraying the nerves she tries to hide. “I’m… I’m not sure myself,” she admits, her voice shaking just slightly. “I like your mother…” she pauses as if choosing her words wisely before deciding she’ll answer. Yet her fear of her words upsetting me is evident. “There’s something about your mother’s vulnerability… It reminded me of my own, I guess. And I don’t know why, but in that moment, it felt like the right thing to do. She didn’t drink it; he was going to tell your father.”

I can’t help but look at her in a new light. Most people are deterred by Father’s men, let alone attempting to intervene their actions. But her? She had the guts to stand up against one of my father’s most fearsome - Lorenzo, no less.

“Lorenzo wouldn’t hurt her,” I tell her, and she glances away.

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