Page 9 of High Stakes

I nod, saying nothing because there’s nothing to say. Orders are orders, even when they come wrapped in familial interference. “What do you mean Dante let it slip?”

“Your mother,” he starts again, and I can feel the headache building behind my eyes, “wasn’t pleased to hear about your marriage second-hand. You know how she is about tradition.”

“Great,” I sigh, imagining the lecture I’ll get from the matriarch who cared more for appearances than her own children.

“Make it happen, Leone. She wants the grand spectacle. A proper wedding.” My father’s command slices through the haze of cigar smoke. A proper wedding, as if putting on a show could erase the sins of our family. “Get her off my back, and make sure Fallon behaves at dinner next week.”

I stiffen, my hand pausing mid-motion. “Dinner?”

He nods, leaning back with an air of nonchalance only those born into power can truly possess. “Your mother has invited her over. She’s quite excited about the idea of grandchildren.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “She never gave a damn about us, and now she’s excited about grandkids?” The hypocrisy tastes sour.

“Watch your mouth, Leone,” he warns, eyes narrowing slightly—a subtle reminder he’s still the boss. “She may have been an alcoholic, but she’s been sober for three months.”

“Right,” I scoff, unable to help myself.

“Give her a chance, son,” he insists, a wistful note creeping into his voice—a rare glimpse of softer emotions usually buried beneath ruthlessness. “She’s trying. Hasn’t touched a drink in months.”

“And you believe her?” I ask.

“I do. She’s breath-tested daily.”

I search his face for any sign of delusion, finding none.

“Fine,” I relent, rolling my shoulders to release some tension. “But if this is a game?—”

“It’s not.” His assurance is firm, leaving no room for further discussion. We end the meeting, and I head home.

The drive blurs by, my mind preoccupied with the tasks ahead. I need to ensure everything falls into place—Milo, the wedding, Fallon. Especially Fallon. Control must be maintained, boundaries enforced. When I arrive home, the house is silent, save for the undercurrent of fear.

I make my way to the basement. A shiver runs through me—half anticipation, half dread. I turn the handle and push the door open. Fallon is huddled in the corner, defiant and frail. I warned her. She chose to ignore me, and now she faces the consequences.

“Get up,” I command, my tone leaving no room for argument.

She looks up, her deep green eyes searching for a hint of mercy. “Is Milo okay?” she asks, voice barely a whisper.

“Get up,” I repeat, firmer. There’s a moment of hesitation before she reluctantly complies, using the wall for support. Her limbs tremble, betraying her pain. I grab her arm and pull her to her feet. Her winces cut through me, but she must learn.

“Please, Leone…” Her plea hangs in the air as we ascend the stairs. This is for her own good, whether she sees it or not. I drag her upstairs, wondering where Milo and Rocco are. Milo is likely watching, but he stays hidden.

I take Fallon to the bathroom, shoving the door open. “Shower,” I order. Her hands shake as she turns on the water. I don’t look at her at first, knowing what I’ll see, but when she winces, refusing to get under the stream, I take over, pushing her in. Rolling up my sleeves, I grab the soap and begin cleaning her, avoiding the bruises blooming like dark flowers on her skin.

When I crouch to wash her legs, I see the raw, chafed flesh on her thighs, parts rubbed raw. I swallow thickly as she flinches when I bring the soap to her backside. She tries to pull away, but I drag her closer. Her hand grips my shoulder, trembling.

“Stay still; I’ll be quick,” I tell her, running the soap over her skin.

Once done, I drag her out, offering a towel—a small mercy. I lead her back, not to the room she fears but to another, sparser one with a bed and toilet. She pleads not to go, grabbing the stair railing. I toss her over my shoulder as she kicks and thrashes. I’m half-tempted to smack her, but I hold back.

“Here,” I say, setting her down inside. “You stay until my terms are met.”

“Leone…” Her voice breaks, carrying despair that should shake me—it doesn’t. Not anymore. Fallon clutches the thin blanket on the steel bed, wrapping it tight around her shivering form.

“Can I have some clothes?” she whispers. “It’s freezing.”

I say nothing. I open the bag Maria must have placed here and retrieve the salve Rocco got while we wait for Stevens to drop off a first aid kit. She winces as I apply it to her chafed legs, carefully bandaging the bleeding parts.

My shirt comes off next, the fabric heavy with the scent of cologne and me, and I toss it at her without a word. Fallon catches it, her gaze lingering on the inked poem stretched across my chest.

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