Page 36 of The Devil's Thorn
His voice is low, cautious, coiled with tension.
I don’t answer.
“Iz… this is getting deeper, fast. He doesn’t let anyone stand there.”
I keep my face composed, eyes forward. Not now. Not here.
“Say the word if you want out—just tap your wrist.”
I reach up, slowly brushing back a loose strand of hair like I’m adjusting something. No signal.
I’m not leaving.
Not until I know who Rafael Romanovreallyis.
The first hand unfolds in a series of small bets. Casual. Safe.
The woman folds early. Mikhail raises once but retreats when the silent man reraises without speaking. Rafael calls and watches, face blank, fingers lazy on the chips.
A pair of jacks. Someone shows an ace-high bluff. The silent man wins the first.
Not Rafael.
But he isn’t phased. He never is.
Second hand—different rhythm. Mikhail plays hard, raising fast. The woman hesitates longer this time, glancing once too often at Rafael. He doesn’t meet her eye.
I watch his cards when he lifts them—King of Spades, Ten of Hearts.
Not exceptional. Not trash.
He calls.
By the river, the table narrows to three—Rafael, Mikhail, and the silent one again. Tension coils like smoke above the felt.
The turn flips.
Queen of Spades.
Rafael tips his head the slightest inch. I lean in, like I’m adjusting something by his chair, and lower my voice just enough for only him to hear.
“?? ???????.”He’s bluffing.
Rafael doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t blink. But I feel it—the pulse of reaction in the quiet inhale he takes.
His fingers tap the chips once.
Then he raises.
The room stills for a breath.
Mikhail watches him long and hard, then folds.
The silent one calls.
Cards flip.
Rafael’s hand wins.
