Page 69 of Made for Saints

“Rafe,” I said, my voice low with warning. “Stop stalling.”

“Stalling? Me?” He feigned innocence, placing a hand over his chest like I’d just accused him of treason. “Dante, I’m wounded. This is called strategy. You wouldn’t understand—you’re too busy trying to look intimidating.”

Rocco snorted into his whiskey, clearly enjoying the deflection. “He’s got a point, Dante. You do have that whole brooding, ‘I’m about to murder everyone in the room’ vibe going on. Lighten up, would you?”

I ignored him, my eyes fixed on Rafe. “Play your cards or fold, Rafe. Either way, shut the hell up.”

Rafe’s grin only widened. “Fine, fine. No need to get your panties in a twist.” He tossed a stack of chips into the pot with a casual flick of his wrist. “Call.”

The dealer nodded and flipped the final card: a nine of hearts. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch as everyone’s eyes darted to the table, recalculating their odds. I didn’t need to recalculate. Three kings were strong—strong enough to win, unless Rafe or Rocco had been hiding something spectacular up their sleeves. And knowing those two, that was always a possibility.

Rocco leaned back in his chair, his grin returning as he tossed another chip into the pot. “Raise.”

I tilted my head, studying him. He was trying too hard. The grin, the casual posture, the way his fingers drummed against the table—it all screamed bluff. But Rocco was good at bluffs. Not great, but good enough to make you second-guess yourself if you weren’t paying attention.

“I see your raise,” I said, pushing my chips forward. “And I’ll double it.”

The room went still. Even Rafe’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, leaning forward to study me with renewed interest.

“Well, well,” he said, “Looks like big brother’s feeling bold tonight. What’s the matter, Dante? Got something to prove?”

“Do you?” I shot back, my gaze steady. “Or are you just here to waste everyone’s time?”

Rafe laughed, the sound low and rough, and shook his head. “You’re such a hard-ass. Fine, I’m in.” He pushed his chips into the pot, the pile now towering in the center of the table like a monument to poor decisions and fragile egos.

All eyes turned to Rocco. He hesitated, his grin faltering just slightly as he glanced at the pot, then at his cards, and finally at me. I could see the gears turning in his head, the internal debate playing out on his face. He wanted to stay in—needed to, if only to save face—but he was teetering on the edge of folding.

“Come on, Roc,” I said, my voice calm but edged with challenge. “What’s it gonna be? You in, or are you out?”

Rocco’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might fold. But then he pushed his chips into the pot with a flourish, his grin returning in full force. “In. Let’s see what you’ve got, Dante.”

The dealer nodded and gestured for us to reveal our cards. Rocco went first, flipping over a pair of queens. A respectable hand, but not enough to beat me. I didn’t bother hiding my smirk as I laid down my kings, the three regal faces staring up at Rocco like they were mocking him.

“Damn it,” Rocco muttered, leaning back in his chair andrunning a hand through his hair. “I knew you were bluffing.”

“I wasn’t,” I said, my smirk widening as I reached for the pot. “You just suck at poker.”

“Hold on,” Rafe said, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade. “Don’t count me out just yet.”

All eyes turned to Rafe as he laid his cards on the table, one by one. A jack. A ten. A queen. A king. And finally...an ace.

A straight. A goddamn straight.

The room erupted in a mix of groans and laughter, the kind of chaos that only comes when someone pulls off the impossible. Rocco slapped the table, his grin returning as he leaned back in his chair, clearly relieved that someone else had taken the loss harder than him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, staring at the cards like they’d personally betrayed me.

Rafe, the bastard, just leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide like some kind of victorious gladiator. “What can I say? The cards love me.”

“The cards don’t love you,” I shot back, my tone sharp. “You’re just too stupid to realize when you should fold.”

“Stupid or brilliant?” Rafe countered, his smirk widening as he reached for the pot. His fingers brushed the chips, and he paused, glancing at me with mock hesitation. “Oh, wait. Should I give you a moment to process your loss, big brother? I know this must be hard for you.”

“Touch those chips, and it’ll be hard for you to walk out of here,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.

Rafe laughed, clapping me on the shoulder as he passed. “Good game, brother. Try not to lose too much sleep over it.”

The sound of footsteps drew my attention, and I turned to see one of Rocco’s men approaching the table. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, with a nervous energy that set my teeth on edge. He leaned down to whisper something in Rocco’s ear, his voice too low for me to catch.

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