Page 89 of My Mafia Queen

“We’re done here,” he says to his men, Vadim and me.

Suits rustle, and more chairs scrape the floor as a few other people push to their feet.

“Get me my money,” Damaso says to one of his men, who rushes to pick up the chips from the table.

Vadim produces a chuckle that convinces no one.

“No need to react harshly, Salla. It was only a proposal. I thought you wanted half of the casino. No way in hell I thought you’d lose.”

I didn’t even notice Damaso fished out a cigarette and put it between his lips.

The lit cigarette dangles from his lips while he watches the man tasked with collecting his chips rounding the table and doing his job.

“I never talked about trading women, Ivanov. I offered to buy you out. You said no. No need to make a circus out of this,” Damaso says around his cigarette.

His brow creases into a frown while he talks to Vadim without looking at him.

“Let’s go,” he says to me, touching my shoulder and pulling the chair back for me.

I rise to my feet, and he takes my coat from one of his men and drapes it over my shoulders when Vadim pushes out of his seat and walks to us.

Damaso makes a clipped gesture toward him, removing his cigarette from his mouth at the same time and blowing the smoke to the side.

“No need to hustle me,” he says.

“I was serious,” the Russian says, sounding and looking serious, although this is the wrong audience for him as no one buys his shit.

“You could’ve won your part of the casino fair and square and kept your girl.”

He moves his eyes to me, flashing a creepy smile.

“I’ve heard rumors she is precious to you, but losing a good deal because of her is a shame. And I’m sure it won’t sit well with your bosses in New York.”

Anyone in the room must know by now he just tried to compromise Damaso. He set him up, used me as bait, and accomplished what he wanted.

He didn’t give Damaso a real option.

He played him, using me as a prop and expecting the exact outcome that eventually happened.

That’s why Damaso calls it a night.

He knows exactly what Vadim has done.

“No need to worry,” Damaso says before taking a drag, blowing the smoke out, and putting out his cigarette in a metallic ashtray. “I’m sure they’ll have no comment when I take over your casino and send you back to Mother Russia.”

A couple of seconds pass before Damaso straightens his back, removes his bowtie for the second time this evening, undoes his neckline and his cufflinks, shoves everything into his pocket, and turns to me.

“Time to go,” he says quietly, and I can tell from his expression that he can’t wait to leave the room.

“You have a strange sense of humor, Salla,” Ivanov says. “None of what you just said is true. You can’t take over my territory. Your bosses won’t allow you to do that. And you covering up for this informant––”

“What informant?” Damaso barks, and I can tell this is another trap.

Vadim is nagging him, looking for trouble.

If he can’t get Damaso one way, he’s trying a different method. Whatever it takes to make him lose his cool. He’s looking for trouble, and he might find it.

And like Boris before him, he uses this proven strategy of placing his opponent into two equally bad situations.

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