Chapter 23
Dante
M y cousin's estate sprawled out before me like a bad cliché of wealth and excess—gilded gates, manicured lawns, and enough marble statues to make the Vatican blush. Rocco had always been a fan of overcompensation, and tonight was no different. The driveway was lined with sleek, expensive cars, each one more obnoxious than the last, their polished exteriors gleaming under the estate’s floodlights.
I parked my car at the far end, away from the peacocking, and stepped out into the cool night air. The faint hum of music and laughter drifted from the house, mingling with the scent of cigars and whiskey. It was a scene I knew all too well—a room full of men drunk on power and liquor, each one trying to outdo the other while pretending they weren’t keeping score.
I adjusted the cuffs of my shirt, the smooth fabric sliding over my wrists as I made my way up the stone steps. The heavy oak doors swung open before I could knock, revealing one of Rocco’s men—a burly guy with a neck thicker than his IQ. He gave me a curt nod, stepping aside to let me in without a word.
Inside, the estate was as gaudy as ever. Chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, their crystal prisms casting fractured rainbows across the room. The walls were lined with artwork that probably cost more than most people’s homes, though I doubted Rocco could name half the artists. He didn’t buy art for its meaning—he bought it because it made him look important.
The sound of laughter and clinking glasses drew me deeper into the house, past a grand staircase and into the main lounge. The room was packed with familiar faces—lieutenants, associates, and a handful of hangers-on looking to score favor with the Conti family. At the center of it all was Rocco, lounging in a leather armchair like a king holding court. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his tailored suit clung to him like a second skin, the top two buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a gaudy gold chain.
As I approached, Rocco’s grin widened, his arms spreading in mock welcome. “Two out of three Conti brothers in one night? What do we owe this pleasure?”
I smirked, shoving my hands into my pockets as I stopped in front of him. “You feeling lucky tonight, Roc?”
“Always,” he said, his grin turning sly. “Why? You looking to lose some money?”
“Oh, Rafe must be here then,” I said, glancing around the room. “Because we all know Luca’s the card shark. You? You’re just the guy who buys the chips.”
The men around us chuckled, and Rocco’s grin faltered just slightly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he fixed me with a look that was equal parts amusement and warning. “Careful, Dante. I might take offense.”
I tilted my head, my smirk widening. “I like you, Roc, but you know I have no problem dislocating your jaw.”
“See, Dante,” he said, leaning back again with a laugh. “It’s shit like that which keeps you off the Christmas card list.”
“The Contis don’t give a fuck about your pathetic Christmas cards,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “We’re here to win fucking money.”
I turned to see Rafe strolling into the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a bottle of whiskey in one hand. His suit was rumpled, his tie hanging loose around his neck, but he wore the disheveled look with the kind of confidence that only Rafe could pull off. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he joined us.
“Speak of the devil,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Rafe, you’re late.”
“Traffic,” he said with a shrug, though we both knew he was lying. Rafe was never late because of traffic—he was late because he didn’t give a shit about anyone else’s schedule.
Rocco rolled his eyes, standing and gesturing toward the poker table in the corner of the room. “Well, now that the gang’s all here, shall we?”
We followed him to the table, a custom-made monstrosity of dark wood and green felt, complete with gold-plated cup holders and built-in ashtrays. The other players were already seated, their faces a mix of excitement and apprehension as we took our places.
Rocco sat at the head of the table, his grin returning as he shuffled a deck of cards with practiced ease. The other players—some familiar faces, others forgettable—shifted in their seats, the air thick with anticipation. This wasn’t just a game of poker; it was a battlefield, and every man at the table knew it. Here, fortunes were made and egos were shattered, all under the guise of camaraderie and good-natured fun.
Rafe dropped into the seat beside me, his cigar dangling precariously from his lips as he poured himself a generous glass of whiskey. “So, what’s the buy-in tonight, Roc? Or are you just going to hand me your wallet now and save us all some time?”
Rocco chuckled, dealing the cards with a flourish. “Big talk for someone who still owes me from last month.”
“I don’t owe you shit,” Rafe shot back, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the edge of the table. “You cheated. Everyone knows it.”
“I don’t cheat,” Rocco said, feigning offense. “I’m just better than you.”
“Better at running your mouth, maybe,” I interjected, smirking as I picked up my cards. “Let’s see if your luck holds up tonight.”
The first hand was uneventful, a warm-up round that ended with one of Rocco’s lackeys folding under pressure. The second hand was more interesting, with Rafe bluffing his way to a small pot and earning a round of groans from the table.
By the third hand, the banter was in full swing.
“So, Dante,” Rocco said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as he studied me over the rim of his glass. “How’s business these days? Still breaking kneecaps and stealing watches?”
The table erupted in laughter, and I felt a flicker of amusement despite myself. “Business is booming,” I said, my voice even. “But don’t worry, Roc. Your kneecaps are safe. For now.”
“Good to know,” he said, his grin widening. “I’d hate to have to start walking with a limp. It’d ruin my whole aesthetic.”
“Your aesthetic is already ruined,” Rafe muttered, earning another round of laughter. He leaned forward, flicking ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “Speaking of aesthetics, Roc, what the hell is that thing on the wall? Is that supposed to be art, or did you let a toddler loose with a paintbrush?”
Rocco followed his gaze to the abstract painting hanging above the fireplace, his expression darkening. “That’s a Pollock, you uncultured asshole.”
Rafe snorted, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Looks like someone spilled a can of paint and called it a day.”
“Don’t listen to him,” I said, smirking as I tossed a chip into the pot. “Rafe thinks Michelangelo is a brand of frozen pizza.”
The table roared with laughter, and Rafe flipped me off without missing a beat. “Fuck you, Dante.”
“Love you too, brother,” I said, my smirk widening.
The game continued, the stakes climbing higher with each hand. The tension at the table was palpable, but it was the kind of tension I thrived on. Rocco was bluffing—his grin was too wide, his fingers too still. The guy to my left was nervous, his leg bouncing under the table. And Rafe? Well, Rafe was just being Rafe—reckless, unpredictable, and entirely too confident for his own good.
By the time we reached the fifth hand, the pot was substantial, and the room had grown quieter. The only sounds were the shuffle of chips, the rustle of cards, and the occasional clink of a glass. Rocco leaned back in his chair, his grin firmly in place as he studied the table.
“You know,” he said, his tone light but his eyes calculating, “it’s always a pleasure having you boys here. Keeps things...interesting.”
“Interesting?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call losing?”
Rocco’s grin faltered, just for a moment, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he met my gaze. “Careful, Dante. You’re in my house, remember?”
“And?” I said, my voice calm but edged with steel. “You think that means something to me?”
The tension at the table spiked, the air crackling like a live wire. Rocco’s grin returned, but it was colder now, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back in his chair.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Dante,” he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “But I guess that’s what makes you so much fun to play with.”
“Fun for me, maybe,” I shot back, tossing another chip into the pot. “For you? Not so much.”
Rafe chuckled, his cigar dangling from his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “He’s not wrong, Roc. You’ve been bleeding chips all night. Might want to save some for the Christmas card fund.”
“Fuck your Christmas cards,” Rocco snapped, though there was no real heat behind his words. “I’m just warming up.”
“Warming up?” Rafe echoed, smirking as he flicked ash into the tray. “Roc, you’ve been ‘warming up’ since I got here. At this rate, you’ll be broke before the whiskey runs out.”
“Keep talking, Rafe,” Rocco said, his grin sharpening. “ We’ll see who’s broke by the end of the night.”
“Not me,” Rafe said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “I’ve got a system.”
“A system?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling blind luck these days?”
Rafe shrugged, his smirk widening. “Call it what you want, brother. All I know is, I’ve got more chips than you.”
“For now,” I said, my tone light but deliberate. “But we both know you’ll blow it all on one stupid hand.”
“Maybe,” Rafe admitted, taking a sip of his whiskey. “But at least I’ll have fun doing it.”
The table roared with laughter again, and even Rocco cracked a smile, the tension easing just slightly. But the undercurrent of competition remained, a steady pulse that kept us all on edge.
By the seventh hand, the pot was massive, and the room had grown quiet again. Rocco was leaning forward, his elbows on the table and his eyes fixed on the cards in his hand. Rafe was lounging in his chair, his expression unreadable as he toyed with his chips. And me? I was watching them both, my mind calculating every possible outcome.
Rocco glanced at me, his grin returning as he pushed a stack of chips into the pot. “Feeling lucky, Dante?”
“Always,” I said, matching his bet without hesitation. “The question is, are you?”
Rocco’s grin widened, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a tell he probably didn’t even realize he had. I leaned back in my chair, my gaze steady as I studied him.
“You’re bluffing,” I said, my tone casual but deliberate.
Rocco’s grin faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. “Am I?”
“You are,” I said, tossing another chip into the pot. “And not very well, I might add.”
The men around the table chuckled, and Rocco’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the edge of his cards .
The game continued, the stakes climbing higher with each hand. The tension at the table was thick, almost crackling in the air, but it was the kind of pressure I thrived on. Every glance, every gesture, every hesitant bet was a tell, and I read them all like an open book.
The final hand was a goddamn spectacle. Chips piled high in the center of the table like a glittering mountain, the kind of pot that could make even the most seasoned players sweat. The room had gone quiet, the usual banter and laughter replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. Even the background noise of the estate—the faint hum of conversation, the clink of glasses—seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of cards being shuffled and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor.
Rocco’s grin was back, but it was tight, forced. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled as he studied the cards in his hand. His usual bravado was still there, but I could see the cracks forming. He was trying too hard to look confident, too hard to sell the idea that he had the winning hand. It was almost sad. Almost.
Rafe, on the other hand, was the picture of reckless indifference. He lounged in his chair, his whiskey glass half-empty, His cards were fanned out lazily in one hand, and he was using the other to idly stack and restack his chips, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But I knew better. Rafe was a wildcard, unpredictable and dangerous, and he thrived in moments like this. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was playing the room.
And then there was me. Calm. Collected. Unreadable. I picked up my cards with deliberate precision, my face a mask of indifference as I studied them. Two kings stared back at me, their cold, regal faces promising victory if I played this right. But poker wasn’t just about the cards—it was about reading the room, exploiting weaknesses, and knowing exactly when to strike.
“Alright, boys,” Rocco said, his voice breaking the silence. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms wide like a benevolent king addressing his court. “This is it. Last hand of the night. Winner takes all.”
“Winner takes all?” Rafe repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What is this, a goddamn Western? Should we start calling you Sheriff Rocco?”
“Sheriff?” I interjected, smirking. “More like the town drunk.”
The table erupted in laughter, and Rocco’s grin faltered for a split second before he recovered. “Laugh it up, assholes,” he said, tossing a chip into the pot. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I clean you out.”
“Bold words for a man who’s been bleeding chips all night,” I said, matching his bet without hesitation. “You sure you don’t want to fold now and save yourself the embarrassment?”
“Not a chance,” Rocco shot back, his grin sharpening. “I’ve got the cards, Dante. You’ll see.”
“Oh, we’ll see,” I said, my tone calm but edged with challenge. “But I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”
Rafe chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed his own chips into the pot. “You two are like an old married couple. It’s honestly kind of adorable.”
“Shut up, Rafe,” Rocco and I said in unison.
The dealer began the final round, flipping the community cards one by one with agonizing slowness. The tension in the room was palpable, every eye fixed on the table as the cards revealed themselves. A queen. A ten. A seven. Nothing that helped Rocco, judging by the way his grin tightened. Rafe, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was never a good sign.
The fourth card was a king, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction as I glanced at my hand. Three of a kind. Strong, but not unbeatable. I kept my expression neutral, my gaze steady as I tossed another chip into the pot.
Rocco tilted his head, his fingers tapping a deliberate rhythm on the edge of the table. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
I shrugged, meeting his gaze with an easy smile. “Some of us prefer to let our cards do the talking.”
Rocco hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking to the pot, then to his cards, and finally to me. He was trying to read me, trying to figure out if I was bluffing. But I gave him nothing. Just a steady, unflinching stare that dared him to make a move.
“Call,” he said finally, pushing his chips into the pot.
Rafe took his sweet time, because of course he did. The bastard lived for the drama.
“Well,” he drawled, finally looking up from his cards. His smirk widened as he glanced between Rocco and me. “It’s not every day I get to see you two puffing your chests at each other like a couple of roosters in a barnyard. Honestly, it’s kind of entertaining.”
“Rafe,” I said, my voice low with warning. “Stop stalling.”
“Stalling? Me?” He feigned innocence, placing a hand over his chest like I’d just accused him of treason. “Dante, I’m wounded. This is called strategy. You wouldn’t understand—you’re too busy trying to look intimidating.”
Rocco snorted into his whiskey, clearly enjoying the deflection. “He’s got a point, Dante. You do have that whole brooding, ‘I’m about to murder everyone in the room’ vibe going on. Lighten up, would you?”
I ignored him, my eyes fixed on Rafe. “Play your cards or fold, Rafe. Either way, shut the hell up.”
Rafe’s grin only widened. “Fine, fine. No need to get your panties in a twist.” He tossed a stack of chips into the pot with a casual flick of his wrist. “Call.”
The dealer nodded and flipped the final card: a nine of hearts. The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch as everyone’s eyes darted to the table, recalculating their odds. I didn’t need to recalculate. Three kings were strong—strong enough to win, unless Rafe or Rocco had been hiding something spectacular up their sleeves. And knowing those two, that was always a possibility.
Rocco leaned back in his chair, his grin returning as he tossed another chip into the pot. “Raise. ”
I tilted my head, studying him. He was trying too hard. The grin, the casual posture, the way his fingers drummed against the table—it all screamed bluff. But Rocco was good at bluffs. Not great, but good enough to make you second-guess yourself if you weren’t paying attention.
“I see your raise,” I said, pushing my chips forward. “And I’ll double it.”
The room went still. Even Rafe’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, leaning forward to study me with renewed interest.
“Well, well,” he said, “Looks like big brother’s feeling bold tonight. What’s the matter, Dante? Got something to prove?”
“Do you?” I shot back, my gaze steady. “Or are you just here to waste everyone’s time?”
Rafe laughed, the sound low and rough, and shook his head. “You’re such a hard-ass. Fine, I’m in.” He pushed his chips into the pot, the pile now towering in the center of the table like a monument to poor decisions and fragile egos.
All eyes turned to Rocco. He hesitated, his grin faltering just slightly as he glanced at the pot, then at his cards, and finally at me. I could see the gears turning in his head, the internal debate playing out on his face. He wanted to stay in—needed to, if only to save face—but he was teetering on the edge of folding.
“Come on, Roc,” I said, my voice calm but edged with challenge. “What’s it gonna be? You in, or are you out?”
Rocco’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might fold. But then he pushed his chips into the pot with a flourish, his grin returning in full force. “In. Let’s see what you’ve got, Dante.”
The dealer nodded and gestured for us to reveal our cards. Rocco went first, flipping over a pair of queens. A respectable hand, but not enough to beat me. I didn’t bother hiding my smirk as I laid down my kings, the three regal faces staring up at Rocco like they were mocking him.
“Damn it,” Rocco muttered, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “I knew you were bluffing.”
“I wasn’t,” I said, my smirk widening as I reached for the pot. “You just suck at poker.”
“Hold on,” Rafe said, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade. “Don’t count me out just yet.”
All eyes turned to Rafe as he laid his cards on the table, one by one. A jack. A ten. A queen. A king. And finally...an ace.
A straight. A goddamn straight.
The room erupted in a mix of groans and laughter, the kind of chaos that only comes when someone pulls off the impossible. Rocco slapped the table, his grin returning as he leaned back in his chair, clearly relieved that someone else had taken the loss harder than him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, staring at the cards like they’d personally betrayed me.
Rafe, the bastard, just leaned back in his chair, arms spread wide like some kind of victorious gladiator. “What can I say? The cards love me.”
“The cards don’t love you,” I shot back, my tone sharp. “You’re just too stupid to realize when you should fold.”
“Stupid or brilliant?” Rafe countered, his smirk widening as he reached for the pot. His fingers brushed the chips, and he paused, glancing at me with mock hesitation. “Oh, wait. Should I give you a moment to process your loss, big brother? I know this must be hard for you.”
“Touch those chips, and it’ll be hard for you to walk out of here,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.
Rafe laughed, clapping me on the shoulder as he passed. “Good game, brother. Try not to lose too much sleep over it.”
The sound of footsteps drew my attention, and I turned to see one of Rocco’s men approaching the table. He was young, maybe mid-twenties, with a nervous energy that set my teeth on edge. He leaned down to whisper something in Rocco’s ear, his voice too low for me to catch.
Rocco’s expression darkened, his grin vanishing like smoke in the wind. He nodded once, setting his glass down with a deliberate motion before standing.
“Something wrong?” I asked, my tone casual but my senses on high alert.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Rocco said, his voice tight. “Just some business I need to take care of.”
“Business?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I thought tonight was supposed to be bullshit-free.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Plans change.”
I stood, my chair scraping against the floor as I stepped closer. “You need help?”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking to me before shaking his head. “Nah. It’s nothing. Just some idiot who doesn’t know when to quit.”
I didn’t believe him, not for a second. But I also knew better than to push. Rocco might have been family, but he was also proud. Stubborn. And if he wanted my help, he’d ask for it.
“Alright,” I said, my tone neutral. “But if it’s not handled by the time I finish this drink, I’m stepping in.”
He smirked, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Deal.”
As he walked away, I turned back to the table, my mind racing.