Page 53 of High Stakes

Leone exhales sharply, his eyes still locked on the spot where the Russians stood. Milo steps closer, his expression tense as he watches the retreating figures.

“They’re up to something,” Milo mutters, his voice low.

“Of course they are,” Leone replies, his tone cold. “They always are.”

“You don't think he found out?” Milo asks and I look at them wondering what they're talking about. Leone shakes his head.

“Only the family knows, there is no way.” Leone says.

“Know what?” I ask and Leone looks at me.

“Nothing, Mikhail and I have history. But that is in the past.” He says not offering anything else.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Leone doesn’t answer right away, his gaze still distant as he considers the situation. Finally, he turns to me, his expression hard.

“Stay close,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t want you out of my sight.”

I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. The Russians have made their move, and now the game has truly begun. Whatever happens next, I know we’re all in more danger than ever.

I’m not given the luxury of time to dwell on it further, when I feel a familiar, cold sensation creeping up my spine—the unmistakable feeling of being watched. I glance around, my eyes scanning the room, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“I need to use the restroom,” I say, pulling away slightly.

Leone gives me a sharp look, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Make it quick,” he says, his tone clipped when I hear a commotion in the direction of where the Russians went. Glancing over there, I see Mikhail manhandling some woman.

“Where have you been?” I hear him snap at the blonde woman in a red dress; her back is to me, so I can’t see who he has grabbed, but Leone nudges me.

“Go while I check out what is happening.”

I nod and make my way through the casino, my nerves on edge as I navigate through the crowd. I have to resist the urge to break into a run as I move toward the restrooms.

The casino bathroom is lavishly decorated, with ornate gold fixtures and mirrors that stretch from the basins to the ceilings. Soft, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the polished surfaces and the faint sound of distant music filters in from the bustling gaming floor. I lean against the cool marble counter, trying to steady my breathing, but my nerves are shot. I quickly use the toilet, fix my dress, and step out of the cubicle.

As I wash my hands, the sound of the door opening behind me makes me freeze. I look up into the mirror, and my heart stops. I stare at a face I haven’t seen in over a decade. The woman in the mirror has striking blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, eyes eerily similar to mine, and plump lips that seem poised to speak. She looks younger somehow, with an elegance that wasn't there before. Gone is the gaunt, worn visage of a former drug addict; now, she exudes the polished aura of a Russian mafia bride. Her transformation is both shocking and unnerving.

“I thought it was you,” she murmurs, and my gaze runs down the length of her dress, something that looks like it would have cost six months’ worth groceries. All these years we struggled making ends meet. While she has been living it up in a life of luxury, me and dad had been working out how many meals we could skip in a week without fainting at work just to pay for Emma’s medications.

“Rebecca,” I breathe, my voice barely a whisper. My mother.

I don’t know what is more startling, seeing her after all these years or seeing that she is sober. The one thing she could never do for us was remain sober, not even when her belly was full of the arms and legs, and a heartbeat to life she created. She looks… looks good, better than I ever remember, she looks sober and that makes it sting even more.

She looks healthier than I remember yet still gorgeous. I suppose drugs didn’t take her beauty altogether, but there’s no mistaking her. The woman who left us, who abandoned me and Emma, is standing right in front of me.

“Fallon,” she whispers back, her voice trembling with emotion. “It’s really you.”

I spin around, my emotions a tangled mess of anger, confusion, and a faint, buried longing. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, my voice shaking as I try to remain calm.I want to hurt her, break her like she almost broke Dad. So many times, I dreamt of running into this woman, had it all planned out in my head what I would say and do. Now with her standing in front of me all that has gone, and I just want to know why. Why she left, why she abandoned me.

My mother steps closer, her eyes wide and pleading, but I step back, fighting the urge to slap the woman.

“Does Dad know you’ve returned?” I demand. I have so many questions. So many, yet I can’t seem to voice the important ones. All I see is the mother who didn’t love us enough to stick around. Who ran out on us the first chance she got.

“I tried to find him, but that isn’t why I came in here. I need to know what the fuck you’re doing with Leone Pressutti,”

I scoff at her words. “Like you have any right to demand answers from me. Do you even care? What about Emma, your daughter, the one who nearly died because of you?” she flinches at my words and I see what I can only perceive as a flicker of regret perhaps or maybe guilt.

“How is Emma?” she asks, her lip quivering.

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