Page 8 of High Stakes

“Marcel,” I whisper, trying to convince myself this is real. The stench of the dead man beside me, once full of life, and now reduced to a bloody, mutilated corpse should be enough to make this feel real, but it’s not, some part of me no matter how bad things get can fathom that this is my life now. His limbs are severed, his body just a bloody heap of muscle and skin.

There’s no response—only the echo of my voice in this dark, damp prison which has become my world. The weight of reality sinks in, heavy and oppressive: Marcel is dead. And I’m alone with his body.

I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, trying to make myself small, invisible. Maybe if I stay quiet enough, still enough, everything will reset. Maybe I’ll wake up somewhere safe.

But life isn’t a game with second chances. There are no do-overs.

And I can’t breathe.

Four

Leone

The steering wheel feels icy in my hands as I navigate the rain-slick streets, but it’s not the chill that has me on edge—it’s the image of Fallon seared into my mind. The way she crumpled when I... I can’t even think about it without a knot tightening in my gut.

“Damn it,” I mutter, slamming my palm against the horn as some idiot cuts me off, oblivious to the storm brewing inside my car and head. Fallon’s wide, green eyes, usually full of fire, are now extinguished with fear—because she dared enter his room, the tomb of memories I locked away the day I received my son’s urn.

My phone feels heavy as I pull it from my pocket, the sleek device a direct line to clean up the mess at home—a mess I created. My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before pressing down with decisive force.

“Stevens, it’s Leone. Organize a medical kit to be dropped off at the house. Make sure it’s fully stocked,” I bark into the phone, the engine’s roar swallowing my words as I push the car harder.

“Any particular reason?” Stevens’ s voice crackles through the speaker, probing for details he doesn’t need to know. I know he worries I’ll still punish him for Marcus’s actions. But if I’d had an inkling Stevens was involved, he’d be as dead as Marcus.

“None of your fucking business,” I snap, patience fraying. “Just do it.”

My thoughts drift back to Fallon, her body battered and bruised because of my fury. She was wrong to run from me, to go into his room… but the ache gnawing at me suggests maybe I went too far. It’s a weakness I can’t afford—this unsettling concern for her well-being when she betrayed me.

“Anything else?” Stevens’s voice pulls me back, and I realize I’ve been gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles are white.

“Make it quick. Drop it off with Rocco or Milo at the house,” I reply curtly, ending the call. Silence follows, filled only with the sound of the storm outside and the relentless hammering of my heart.

The casino’s neon lights finally come into view, casting eerie shadows across the wet pavement. I shove the phone back into my pocket. My father will be furious I’m late, and with him, there will be another kind of storm—one I’ll weather as always: unyielding, unforgiving, and ready for war.

I stride into the casino, fury boiling in my veins. I hadn’t even made it halfway here when the notification dinged telling me someone was in the basement. I didn’t think Milo would be so foolish, and I was shocked to find Rocco and Maria helping him. Fallon’s hold over Milo and everyone else... All I want to do is turn around and head back before there’s more trouble.

“Leone,” my father grunts as I storm into my office. The smell of aged whiskey stings my nostrils. He’s made himself comfortable, the bottle half-drained.

“You’re late,” he scolds, his eyes too clouded with alcohol to see the rage simmering in mine.

“Something came up at the house,” I say through gritted teeth, waving his irritation away.

“Fallon?” The name falls from his lips like an accusation. “Have you pulled her back in line?”

“I’m working on it,” is all I offer, clenching my jaw to keep from spilling the darker details. “I need to get back home, so let’s get this over with,” I say, dropping into my seat.

“Your brother,” he shifts topics, unaware of how close I am to the edge, “managed to piss off the Mexicans. He attacked their right-hand man last night—the brother-in-law of Santos.” He shakes his head, looking tired.

“Well, maybe if he learned to keep his mouth shut, he’d get into less trouble.”

“Trouble indeed. I had to pay Santos not to kill him. Dante was beaten up and is now licking his wounds.”

“Shame. A bullet would’ve been cheaper and one less problem for me,” I mutter. Dante always had a knack for screwing up and walking away with barely a scratch.

“Speaking of drama, Dante is no longer marrying into the cartel, and he’s furious,” my father continues, oblivious to my disdain for Dante’s antics. “I may have mentioned to Santos you’ve taken a wife. Trying for an heir.”

My glare could shatter glass. “And why would you tell them that?”

“Insurance, Leone. Stability. Dante clearly has no foot in the door,” he waves dismissively, as if talking about the weather, not meddling in my life. “Just make sure Fallon gets pregnant. Santos seemed quite eager. Word’s spreading and Dante let it slip.”

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