Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Alessia
The casino smells like expensive cologne and cigar smoke. Chandeliers hang overhead, and the floors are polished black marble that reflects the light. Men in tailored suits cluster around gaming tables, their laughter carrying across the space.
When we step through the entrance, Romeo and Marco peel off toward the bar area without being told, taking up positions where they can watch the room.
I notice the way Romeo angles his body so that it's always turned slightly away from me, like even looking in my direction might cost him another finger.
Marco doesn't bother with subtlety. He leans against the bar with his arms crossed, staring at me with open contempt that he doesn't try to hide anymore.
Conversations pause when we enter. Heads turn. I feel the weight of their stares, curious and assessing and hungry.
Matteo's hand settles at the small of my back, and the touch is possessive and grounding at the same time. The electricity of it runs up my spine.
"Matteo's here!" Rafael's voice carries across the room, warm with genuine pleasure.
The Brotherhood has gathered around a poker table in the back corner, and from the pile of chips scattered across the felt and the half-empty glasses, they've been here for a while already.
Rafael's in the middle of telling some story that has him gesturing wildly with his cigarette, and Enzo's shaking his head like he's heard it all before but can't help being amused anyway.
Dante says something I can't hear that makes Rafael bark out a laugh, and there's money on the table between them like they've been betting on something.
Luca's the only one not sitting, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, and when his gaze finds me, the easy atmosphere around the table shifts slightly.
"Alessia." Enzo's greeting is polite as always, and I know he's one of the kindest from Matteo's close men. "You honor us with your presence."
"The honor is mine," I reply, matching his formality.
Rafael whistles low. "Damn, Romano. You've been keeping her locked up when she could've been making our games interesting days ago."
"Shut up, Rafael." But there's no heat in Matteo's words.
He guides me toward the table, and I'm acutely aware of every man watching, judging whether I belong here or if I'm just another pretty ornament Matteo's showing off.
My gaze sweeps the room again, searching for the one person I actually want to see there but there’s no sign of her. "Where's Isabella?"
The question lands wrong, I just know it. I can feel it immediately in the way the conversation dies and Luca's shoulders go rigid.
"She's at the estate," Matteo says, pulling out a chair for me and gesturing for me to sit.
"Does she not like casinos?" I'm genuinely curious, because Isabella seems like the type who would enjoy the noise and energy of a place like this.
Matteo's hand tightens on the back of my chair. "She's safer at home."
"Jesus Christ, not this again." Luca sets his drink down harder than necessary.
"Luca—"
"No, seriously, how long are you going to keep her locked up? It's been years, Matteo."
"I'm not locking her up."
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, that's exactly what you're doing." Luca runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. The table goes quiet. Nobody's looking at either of them directly, but everyone's listening.
"We're not having this conversation here." Matteo's voice goes quiet.
Luca grabs his drink and moves away from the table. "Do what you want, you always do anyway."
The silence that follows is heavy and awkward. Matteo stands there for a second longer than he should, jaw tight, before he finally sits down across from me.
I sit down quickly, grateful for something to do with my hands besides fidgeting. The tension between the brothers is uncomfortable to watch, and I can't help feeling like I made it worse by asking about Isabella in the first place.
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I didn't mean—"
"I know." Matteo's thumb brushes my collarbone once before he releases me, and the touch is intimate enough to make Enzo raise an eyebrow.
Rafael clears his throat loudly. "So, are we playing cards or are we going to sit here all night watching family drama?"
"Deal the cards, Romano," Dante says, already pushing chips toward the center of the table. "Let's see if our guest here can actually play or if she's just here for decoration."
I sit up straighter in my chair, grateful to focus on something besides the awkward family dynamics I just witnessed. "Deal the cards, Romano."
Something shifts in Matteo's eyes, something that has nothing to do with poker. "You sound confident, principessa. Hope you can back that up."
"Then deal and find out."
Matteo deals the cards, and they slide across the felt with a soft sound.
My pulse picks up when I pick up my hand and see what I've been dealt, but not from fear.
My father taught me to play cards when I was eight years old, sitting at our kitchen table with a worn deck.
He said cards taught you two things: how to read people and how to hide what you're really thinking.
By the time I was twelve, I could beat him half the time.
By fifteen, I could beat him every time.
It was one of the few good memories I have from before the Morettis came into my life and destroyed everything.
I check my cards and find a pair of eights, which isn't great but could be worse. When I look up, Matteo's watching my face instead of looking at his own hand, probably trying to read me the way my father taught me to read everyone else.
"Your bet," he says.
I push chips forward, a reasonable amount that doesn't give away whether I'm confident or bluffing. His jaw tightens just a fraction before he matches my bet without comment.
Rafael leans back in his chair, looking entertained. "Twenty says she takes this hand."
"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 making my 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.