Page 64 of His Savage Ruin
"You're betting against Matteo?" Dante raises an eyebrow.
"I'm betting on entertainment." Rafael flicks ash toward the floor without looking. "And watching Romano get beat by a woman who's been playing for three days? That's quality entertainment right there."
Across the room, I catch Marco's reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and the hatred in his expression when our eyes meet makes ice slide down my spine. Romeo stands next to him now, his injured hand still held close to his body, and when he notices me looking, he immediately turns his back.
The hand plays out. I win with a pair of queens.
Matteo's mouth curves into something that might be a smile. "Lucky draw."
"Must be." I pull the chips toward me, letting myself smile. "Want to try again?"
Next hand, I win with a flush. The hand after that, a straight. My pile keeps growing, and instead of getting angry like I half-expected, Matteo leans forward in his chair and watches me with an intensity that makes my skin warm. There's something in his expression that looks almost like he's impressed, like he didn't expect this from me and he's enjoying the surprise.
"Cristo, she's taking him apart," Rafael mutters, sounding delighted about it.
"Queens beating kings." Dante examines his cufflinks with that detached interest he always has. "Historically, that tends to cause problems."
Enzo lifts his glass and takes a slow sip before saying, "She plays well. Better than most of the men who sit at this table."
"Much better," Matteo says, and when I glance at him, there's something in his expression that looks almost like pride. "Deal again."
I catch Marco's reflection again, and his face has gone darker now, his whole body radiating tension. When our eyes meet in the mirror, the look he gives me is pure venom.
Something's wrong here, something more than just Marco being angry about Romeo's punishment. I can feel it building in the air like pressure before a storm.
"Can I take a break?" The words come out more uncertain than I intended, but something about Marco's presence is makingmy skin crawl, and I need a minute away from all these eyes watching me. "I just need to use the restroom."
Matteo's hand catches my wrist before I can stand. His thumb presses against my pulse point. "Don't take too long." His voice is casual, but his eyes are serious, and I can tell he's noticed the tension too, even if he doesn't know the cause.
I pull my hand free and walk toward the back hallway, keeping my spine straight, refusing to look like I'm running away. But I feel eyes on me the whole way—Matteo's heated stare and Marco's cold one.
The hallway is quieter than the gaming floor, which is a relief after all that noise. My heels click against the marble, echoing off the high ceiling. I'm halfway to the restroom when someone brushes past me, their shoulder knocking into mine.
"Excuse me," a man's voice says.
I turn around, but whoever it was has already disappeared into the crowd moving toward the bar. My hand tingles where something touched my palm.
I look down. There's white paper there, folded small and tight.
My heart lurches hard against my ribs. I spin around, looking at faces, but no one's paying attention to me. No one's watching. Just people moving around like they have places to be.
I walk faster toward the restroom, slipping inside and locking the door behind me. My hands shake when I unfold the note.
Soon the truth about you will be discovered. Not the pregnancy. We should meet.
The world tilts sideways. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything except the panicked thud of my pulse.Not the pregnancy. Which means?—
Someone knows about Lorenzo. About that night on the balcony.
My knees buckle. I catch myself against the sink, porcelain cold beneath my palms. The forged death certificate, the story I've told so many times I almost believe it myself—all of it crumbles like ash.
I force myself to breathe. In through the nose, out through mouth. Again. Again.
Who could know? Someone from my past, someone who saw more than they should have that night?
My reflection stares back from the mirror—face pale, eyes too wide, the look of prey that knows the predator is circling. I splash cold water on my wrists, but it doesn't help. Can't wash away the terror clawing up my throat.
The note burns in my hand. I should keep it, analyze the handwriting, try to figure out who wrote it. But paranoia wins.I tear it into strips and flush them down the toilet, watching the paper disappear.
