Page 9 of Bratva Bride
I pick up a few chips, weighing them in my hand before placing a modest bet. “Not with someone who has the dealer trained to show his best side.”
She laughs, tossing a larger stack onto her spot. “House rules, Konstantin. Try to keep up.”
The dealer moves quickly, cards flicking across the table with practiced grace. I glance at my hand—eight and seven. Anya watches me, one eyebrow arched, her cards face down as she rests her chin in her hand. I signal for a hit, and the dealer slides a four my way. Nineteen. Not bad.
Anya barely glances at her cards, tossing out a double-down without a second thought. The dealer gives her a ten. She turns over her cards with a casual flourish: two eights, split, then draws a queen on one and an ace on the other. Twenty-one and nineteen.
She gives me a sidelong look, her lips curving. “Beginner’s luck?”
I grin, not bothering to hide my surprise. “Or someone who counts cards for a living.”
She leans closer, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “I don’t have to count. I read people. It’s easier.”
We play hand after hand, chips sliding back and forth across the table, my pile growing, then shrinking, then holding steady while Anya’s seems to multiply like magic. She never loses her cool, never hesitates, and every time she turns over a perfect hand, she glances at me, just to see if I’m still paying attention.
At one point, I try to bluff, raising my bet on a pair of nines, hoping to push her out. She stays in, drawing calmly and turningover a twenty. The dealer busts. She rakes in the pot, giving me a mock look of pity.
“You’re good,” I admit, spreading my hands as if surrendering. “Too good.”
She shrugs, stacking her chips into neat towers. “You get used to it. There’s a trick to everything, if you pay attention.”
“I see,” I quip as we continue to play.
On a particularly close hand, Anya leans in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Most men fold when I play like this. You just get more dangerous.”
I smile. “Maybe I like the challenge.”
She laughs, shaking her head as she collects another stack of chips. “That’s what they all say.”
Just then, a server approaches, setting a tall flute of champagne in front of me with a subtle flourish. “Compliments of the house,” he murmurs, voice careful.
I glance at the bubbles, then up at the server. “I didn’t order this.”
He gestures, almost imperceptibly, toward the far end of the lounge, past the bar and private booths. “It’s on the house,” he says again, his eyes flicking behind me.
Something in his tone makes me glance over my shoulder. Across the lounge, I spot Viktor seated in a private booth, watching the room with the patience of a man who never has to wait for anything. He meets my eyes, lifts his own glass in a silent toast, then sets it down.
Anya follows my gaze and offers a small, knowing smile. “Looks like you’ve been noticed.”
I nod, picking up the champagne. “I guess I’m expected.”
She arches a brow, voice light but meaningful. “Then don’t keep him waiting.”
Viktor’s booth is set slightly apart from the rest, half-shielded by glass and a sweep of heavy curtains. As I approach, he sets his glass aside and gestures for me to take the seat across from him, his posture relaxed, but his eyes tracking every movement in the room.
“Konstantin Buryakov,” he says, voice calm, the faintest hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “I was wondering when you’d finally come and see my place.”
I slide into the booth, returning his look with measured neutrality. “You made it hard to miss. It’s quite a kingdom you’ve built out here.”
Viktor shrugs, glancing around as if the glamour is barely worth noting. “People like to gamble. I just make it comfortable for them to lose.” He taps a finger against the rim of his empty glass. “I hope Anya was a good host.”
“She knows how to keep things interesting,” I reply, letting my gaze take in the details—the way Viktor’s suit is tailored, the subtle scar under his left eye, the ring on his finger that marks old money and older alliances.
Viktor pours another round of champagne without asking, filling both our glasses. The gesture is casual, but I know he’s watching how much I drink, what I reveal, how long I hesitate. Everything in this room is a test.
He leans back, his voice low, carrying just enough weight to make me focus. “The storm you mentioned—do you think you can weather it alone?”
“I don’t have much choice,” I answer, swirling the glass, keeping my tone neutral. “Family is thin these days, and friends even thinner.”
