39. Margot
Chapter 39
Margot
I stare at the cards in my hand, trying to figure out if they’re any good. A ten of diamonds and an ace of clubs—what the hell am I even supposed to do with that? I don’t know why I agreed to this. Because you’re desperate .
How am I supposed to win against a guy who plays poker on a weekly basis when I’ve not touched a pack of cards since I was a kid? I’m going to lose, and then I’ll be stuck married to a man who thinks it’s his right to mold me into the perfect wife. This was a ridiculous idea .
Massimo lays the first three cards down on the coffee table between us. He’s sitting on the couch with a glass of whiskey in front of him and I’m on a cushion on the floor, my glass of wine untouched.
I stare at the cards I’ve been dealt, wracking my brain for the information I crammed this afternoon, but there was so much to take in that I don’t think I’ve actually retained any. A jack of hearts, a seven of clubs, and a queen of diamonds sit on the table before me. I have no idea if this is good or bad.
“You want to know what I told him?” Massimo asks, everything about him cool, calm and collected. The polar opposite to the panic and uncertainty that I’m feeling.
I sip my drink if only to give myself something to do. Keeping my eyes on my cards, I murmur, “No. It doesn’t matter, Massimo. None of this does.” Liar .
In my peripheral, I see him nod. “You’re right.” Massimo moves in his seat, casually tossing a chip into the middle of the table. “Raise you five.”
Crap. He’s betting more . That means he’s confident, right? Or is he bluffing? I have no idea how to tell. I peek up at him under my lashes. His expression is unreadable, the very definition of a poker face.
I eye the chip he’s just thrown in, contemplating my next move. I don’t want to fold, but I don’t know if I should fold. I don’t remember the rules . Do they even apply in a game like this, where it’s just the two of us and we have no dealer?
Deciding not to overthink it, I grab one of my chips with the number five on it and drop it into the pile. It lands with a soft clink against his. His stare is heavy and assessing, like he’s reading every nervous twitch of my fingers.
He smirks. “You’re supposed to say, call .”
Rolling my eyes, I huff, “Call.”
He deals the next card. It’s another face card—this time the king of spades. My stomach tightens. There’s a king, queen, and jack now. Does it matter that they aren’t the same suit? What does the ace count as? I rub at my temple, trying to ease the ache that’s forming. It’s going to take a miracle for me to win at this point.
Sliding a chip between his fingers, he tosses it onto the pile. “Raise you five.”
This is it, with this next card, I’ll know my fate. Blowing out a breath, I throw in a chip and ask, “What did Alvin owe you?”
Massimo freezes, before shaking it off and reaching for the deck. Tension fills the space between us, and I wonder if he’ll answer me, if he’ll tell me my worth. I should have asked sooner.
“Half a million.”
“Dollars?” My eyes widen. I’m speechless . That’s a huge sum. It might not be much to Massimo, but to me and the people in my world, it’s astronomical. Was Josephine aware of just how much trouble Alvin was in?
“Yes, five hundred thousand dollars.”
When I don’t respond, Massimo slides the final card from the top of the deck before placing it on the table. I watch as he flips it over, my throat tightening, making it difficult to swallow. Ace of hearts . The irony of the card isn’t lost on me. He has my heart, he probably always will, no matter how much I wish he didn’t.
I throw my hand down, leaning back against the couch. “Did I win?”
We stare at each other for an eternity before he drops his gaze to the cards. He takes a breath, one that feels heavier than it should, before he exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You did.”
“I did?” I can’t keep the shock from my voice as I stare at my cards.
“Yeah.” His voice is quieter this time, almost resigned. He lays his cards out in front of us. “You got a straight, which beats my three-of-a-kind.”
Why does it feel like a weight is sitting on my chest? It feels impossible to breathe, or talk, or do anything but stare at him. I should be happy that I won, but all I feel is my heartache.
Massimo knocks his fingers on the tabletop. Once. Twice. The rhythmic tap is steady and measured, but his jaw tightens, showing a sliver of emotion. He shakes his head, like he’s shaking off a thought, then stands. “As promised, you have your freedom.”
Our eyes meet, something swimming in the depths of his that I’m certain mirrors my own.
Regret.
I just don’t know if it’s because he’s lost me or that he had me in the first place.
“I told Antonio that you drive me insane, but if anything, it’s made me a better man. I told him that I like the push and pull that we have, that you will stand up for yourself and call me out on my shit. But most of all, I like the fact that you aren’t tainted by the gore of our world. I told him that I wouldn’t change a thing about you or make you conform in any way,” Massimo says, before huffing out a breath and shaking his head once more. “If you’d stuck around, you would’ve heard that .”
And then he walks away, leaving me to come to terms with the loss of him and his truth hanging over me.
Isn’t this what I wanted? Yes and no.
Why do I feel so bereft? I blink back tears that I won’t let fall. Not here anyway.
It’s over.
We’re over.
But I don’t want us to be .
The silence that surrounds me is deafening. I press my hand to my chest, trying to ease the ache, but it’s no good. It’s there, deep and raw. I’m not sure it will ever go away.
This is the end of our marriage.
I demanded it, but now I’m not sure I want it at all.