Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bianca
The dress Dante chose for tonight is black, fitted, and shows more cleavage than I've displayed in my entire adult life.
I hate it.
I also look incredible in it, which makes me hate it more.
It makes me remember everything that happened last night.
If I didn’t know how much I wanted Dante before last night? I know it now.
No matter how crazy, dangerous and annoying this man is, I want him so much, my body sings for him.
"Ready?" Dante appears in the doorway, looking effortlessly perfect in dark jeans and a black button-down.
"Do I have a choice?" I raise a brow.
"No." But there's something almost gentle in his tone. "But for what it's worth, you look beautiful."
The compliment shouldn't make me feel warm. It does anyway. Everything he does these days makes me feel warm.
Stupid hormones.
"Where are we going exactly?"
"Matteo's place. Poker night with the Brotherhood." He offers his hand. "It's tradition. Every other week, we play cards, drink, and pretend we're not planning murders and territory disputes."
"How wholesome."
"We're very wholesome criminals." He pulls me toward the door. "Just... be yourself. They'll test you, but if you can handle me, you can handle them."
"That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
The drive to Manhattan takes forty minutes. Dante's quiet, which gives me too much time to overthink everything. I'm about to meet his closest friends—the men he trusts with his life, his business, his secrets.
The men who will judge whether I'm convincing enough to pull off this charade.
Matteo's building is in Tribeca, all steel and glass and the kind of wealth that doesn't need to announce itself. The penthouse elevator requires a key card that Dante produces without fanfare.
"Relax," he says as we ascend. "You're wound so tight you might snap."
"I'm about to meet a room full of mobsters who are going to decide if I'm good enough for you. How exactly should I be feeling?"
"Like you don't give a damn what they think." His hand finds the small of my back. "You're smart, sharp, and you don't take shit from anyone. That's all you need to be."
The elevator doors open directly into the penthouse, and I'm immediately hit with the sound of male laughter and the smell of expensive cigars.
The space is massive—open-concept, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that screams money and taste. But what catches my attention is the poker table in the center, surrounded by men who look like they could kill me without breaking a sweat.
"Dante!" A man who can only be Matteo stands from the head of the table. He's huge—easily six-four, built like he still boxes, with dark hair graying at the temples and eyes that miss nothing. "About time. We were starting to think you'd chickened out."
"I don't chicken out, Matteo. I make entrances." Dante's hand tightens on my back. "Everyone, this is Bianca. Bianca, this is everyone."
"Subtle," a man with dark curly hair and a smile too charming for his own good drawls. "I'm Rafe. The pretty one."
"The delusional one," another man corrects. He's leaner, with military-short hair and a scar through his eyebrow. "Enzo. The one who actually works."
"Luca." The last man nods. He's quieter, watchful, probably the smartest one in the room. "Matteo's brother."
"And I," Matteo says with a grin that transforms his intimidating face, "am the one who keeps these idiots alive. Welcome to our humble gathering, Bianca."
"Humble," I repeat, looking around at the penthouse that probably costs more than most people make in a lifetime. "Right."
Rafe laughs. "Oh, I like her already. She's got sass."
"She's got more than sass," Dante mutters.
"Bianca!" A woman emerges from what must be the kitchen, and I'm struck by how stunning she is. Dark auburn hair, golden-brown eyes, slim but with a presence that commands attention. "Finally, another female. I was drowning in testosterone."
"Alessia," Matteo says, and there's something in his voice—possessive, protective, complicated. "Be nice."
"I'm always nice." She rolls her eyes and approaches me, extending a hand. "Ignore them. They're all bark and some bite, but mostly they're just overgrown children with guns."
I take her hand, and her grip is surprisingly strong. "Bianca. The newest acquisition, apparently."
Her eyes sharpen with understanding. "Ah. One of those situations."
"You could say that."
"Then we definitely need to talk. Away from the testosterone." She loops her arm through mine. "Come on. Let them grunt and compare gun sizes. We'll get wine."
Dante looks like he wants to protest, but Matteo claps a hand on his shoulder. "Let them bond. You're going to need her to like Alessia if this is going to work."
In the kitchen, Alessia pours two generous glasses of red wine and hands me one. "So. How bad is it?"
"That obvious?"
"I've been where you are." She leans against the counter. "Maybe not exactly the same, but close enough. Trapped by circumstances, forced to play a role, surrounded by dangerous men who think they know what's best."
"How did you handle it?"
"By refusing to be what they expect." Her smile is sharp. "They want us scared? We get brave. They want us submissive? We get mouthy. They want us to fade into the background?" She gestures to herself. "We make damn sure they can't look away."
I laugh despite myself. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not. But it's better than the alternative." She studies me. "Dante's different with you."
"Different how?"
"Less controlled. More..." She searches for the word. "Human. Usually he's all charm, cold precision and calculated moves. But the way he looks at you? That's not calculation."
"Possessive is what he is."
"Maybe." She sips her wine. "But possession implies he cares enough to want to keep you. Trust me, that's better than the alternative."
Before I can respond, Rafe calls from the other room. "Ladies! Stop plotting our demise and get in here. We're starting."
Alessia grins. "Time to show them what we're made of."
Back in the main room, seats have been arranged around the poker table. Dante pulls out the chair beside his, and I slide into it, hyperaware of how close we're sitting.
"Ground rules," Matteo announces, shuffling cards with practiced ease. "No cheating, no crying, and no shooting each other. Alessia, that last one is specifically for you."
"I shot him once," she mutters. "You'd think he'd let it go."
"You shot Matteo?" I can't help asking.
"In the leg. He deserved it." She settles into the chair beside Matteo, and the look he gives her is so intense I have to look away.
"Stakes?" Luca asks.
"Thousand minimum," Rafe says, then grins at me. "Unless the lady needs a handicap?"
"The lady," I say sweetly, "can handle her own stakes, thanks."
Rafe's grin widens. "So this is the famous Bianca. Dante's been talking about you."
"Has he?" I glance at Dante, who looks completely unbothered.
"Nonstop," Enzo drawls. "It's getting annoying, honestly."
"I mentioned her once," Dante says.
"Once every conversation," Matteo corrects with amusement. "We've been taking bets on when he'd actually bring you around."
"And?" I shuffle my cards as they're dealt.
"Rafe thought you'd run for the hills before he could. I had more faith." Matteo leans back. "Though I'll admit, I'm impressed you're still here after dealing with Adrian Morelli."
So they know. Of course, they know.
"Adrian's an idiot," I say flatly. "But you already know that."
"We do," Rafe agrees cheerfully. "Weasel bastard. We told Dante he should've just killed him and been done with it."
"I considered it," Dante says, his hand finding my thigh under the table.
"So, how's it working out?" Luca asks me directly. "The arrangement."
"You mean being used as collateral for my ex-boyfriend's gambling debts?" I meet his gaze. "It's going about as well as you'd expect."
The table goes quiet.
Then Rafe starts laughing. "Holy shit. She's actually honest. Dante, you found the only woman in New York who doesn't bullshit."
"It's one of her more annoying qualities," Dante says, but there's something warm in his voice.
"I like her," Alessia announces. "She doesn't pretend everything's fine when it's clearly not."
"Why would I pretend?" I arrange my cards. "You all know exactly how this started. Might as well be honest about it."
"Most women would be too proud to admit it," Enzo observes.
"Most women probably have better options than I did." I place my bet. "My mother's dying of cancer. Adrian used me to pay his debts. Dante made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Here I am. No point pretending it's a fairy tale."
"But you're still here," Matteo says. "That's interesting."
"That's survival," I correct. “I need to keep my mother safe.”
"Is it?" His eyes are sharp, assessing. "Because from where I'm sitting, you don't look like someone who's just surviving."
I don't know how to answer that, so I don't.
The game begins, and I expect them to go easy on me. They don't.
Rafe bets aggressively. Enzo plays conservatively. Luca watches everything. Matteo treats it like war.
And Dante? Dante plays like he does everything else—calculated, precise, always three moves ahead.
But I've been playing poker since I was twelve. Mom taught me during her first round of chemo, when we needed something to do besides worry.
I fold when I should fold. Bet when I should bet. Bluff exactly twice.
And I win.
Not every hand. But enough that Rafe whistles appreciation and even Enzo looks impressed.
"She's a hustler," Matteo says after I take a particularly large pot. "Dante, you brought a hustler to poker night."
"I brought my girlfriend to poker night," Dante corrects. "The hustling is a bonus."
"Where'd you learn to play like that?" Luca asks.
"My mother." I stack my chips. "She always said if you're going to gamble, you better know the odds."
"Smart woman," Alessia says.
"She is." My throat tightens. "Very smart."
Dante's hand finds my thigh again, squeezes once. Understanding.
The night continues. The men get progressively more drunk—except Dante, who sticks to water. The conversation gets cruder, testing me with jokes and innuendo that would make my students' parents faint.
I fire back with wit sharp enough to make them laugh. Make them respect me.
And slowly, I realize—they like me.
Not because I'm Dante's supposed girlfriend. But because I refuse to be intimidated and I can hold my own at their table, in their world.