Chapter 11
Poker is not a game of luck. It is a game of mathematics and psychological dissection.
I held two cards in my hand. The King of Spades and the Ace of Spades. On the green felt table, the flop showed the Queen of Spades, the Ten of Hearts, and the Two of Clubs.
I calculated the odds. With the turn and river yet to come, my probability of hitting a Royal Flush was approximately 2%. My probability of hitting a flush or a straight was significantly higher.
My opponent, a sweating oil tycoon from Texas whose name I had already deleted from my memory, pushed a stack of chips into the center. He was bluffing. His carotid artery was pulsing at a rate of 98 beats per minute. His pupils were dilated. He had nothing.
"All in," he grunted.
I stared at him. I stared at the chips.
Usually, this is the moment I enjoy. The kill. The moment I strip a man of his arrogance and his assets with a single flip of a card.
But tonight, I felt nothing.
It was just noise.
"Call," I said, tossing a single black chip onto the pile.
The dealer revealed the turn. The Jack of Spades. The dealer revealed the river. The Ten of Spades.
The table erupted. The tycoon cursed. The dealer pushed a mountain of money toward me.
I didn't look at it. My gaze was fixed on the condensation sliding down the glass of beer next to my right hand.
It was my fifth glass. I do not usually consume alcohol in this volume. Alcohol dulls the senses. It slows reaction time. It introduces variables into a controlled system.
But tonight, I needed the variables. I needed to drown out the image that had been burned into my retinas three hours ago.
The Asset. Crying.
I took a long drink, the bitter liquid burning my throat.
Why?
The question circled my mind like a glitched line of code.
Why did she cry?
I ran the diagnostics again.
Physical repulsion? Did she find me aesthetically unpleasing? Unlikely. I am objectively symmetrical. My fitness levels are peak. I have been pursued by women of high status globally. My hygiene is impeccable. I had showered immediately prior to the interaction.
Another attachment? Is she preserving herself for another male?
The background check on Aleizha Garcia was sterile.
No boyfriends. No lingering ex-lovers. Unless she is harboring a secret affection for someone I missed?
Well, if there is another male, I will find him. And I will dismantle him.
Fear? She was shaking. She was terrified.
I gripped the glass tighter.
She is my wife. By law. By contract. She agreed to the terms. She added her own ridiculous clauses with that pink fur pen.
So why, when I initiated the consummation of the deal, did she look at me as if I were holding a knife to her throat?
I do not rape. I do not take what is not offered.
But what frustrated me—what made me leave the penthouse and drive to this cesspool of a casino—was the realization that I did not want mere compliance.
I wanted... participation.
I wanted her to look at me the way she looked at that damned ice cream. I wanted her to want the act.
I remembered the moment I stopped. I remembered buttoning her pajamas. I remembered the scent of her skin—vanilla and powder.
Fuck.
I slammed my hand down on the table. BANG.
The sound echoed in the VIP room. The chatter stopped. The dealer froze. The tycoon looked at me with fear.
"Game over," I announced.
I stood up, ignoring the pile of chips worth thousands.
"Mr. Muratori?" the dealer asked hesitantly. "Your winnings?"
"Burn them," I snarled.
I turned away from the table. I needed air. I needed a distraction. I needed to reset my biological drive to its factory settings.
I unbuttoned the second button of my shirt, loosening the collar that suddenly felt like a noose.
I walked toward the bar.
As I approached, a woman detached herself from the shadows.
She was not subtle. She was designed for attention. Brunette. Small waist. Hips that swayed with a mathematical precision calculated to entice. Her chest was substantial, straining against the fabric of a dress that was more concept than clothing.
My type. Historically speaking.
"Hello, handsome," she purred, stepping into my personal space. Her hand reached out, her fingers trailing over my bicep.
I stopped. I looked down at her.
"You look tense," she whispered, her voice husky. "Do you want to go somewhere... private?"
I analyzed her. Compliance: 100%. Attraction: High. Emotional Baggage: Zero.
This was the solution. A simple physiological release to purge the frustration from my system.
"Yes," I said.
I didn't wait for her. I walked toward the private VIP rooms at the back of the casino. She followed, the click of her heels echoing my own footsteps.
I opened the door to a private lounge. It was dark, smelling of leather and expensive perfume.
I walked in. She followed and closed the door.
She wasted no time. She walked up to me, her hands confident. She reached up, her fingers tracing the ink of the serpent tattoo on my neck.
"Nice ink," she murmured. She leaned in, kissing the spot where the snake's head met my jawline.
I stood there, waiting for the reaction. Waiting for the arousal. Waiting for the familiar cold satisfaction of a transaction well executed.
Her hands moved down. She began to caress my chest, her palms rubbing against the hard planes of my pectorals through the fabric of my shirt.
I looked down at her.
And then, the system crashed.
The lighting in the room shifted in my intoxicated mind.
The brunette hair... for a split second, it looked black. The heavy perfume... for a split second, it smelled like vanilla. The red dress... for a split second, it looked like pink silk pajamas.
I blinked.
In my mind, I didn't see a stranger. I saw her.
I saw Aleizha.
But not the crying Aleizha. I saw an Aleizha who wanted this. I saw her doe eyes looking up at me with desire instead of fear.
My body reacted instantly. Violently. A surge of heat that I had not felt with the brunette.
And then, reality snapped back.
The woman in front of me wasn't Aleizha. She was a stranger. She was a generic variable.
And suddenly, her touch felt repulsive. It felt like grit on skin.
I grabbed her wrists.
"Stop," I commanded.
The woman froze. She looked up, confused. "What's wrong, baby? Too fast?"
I stepped back, releasing her as if she were contaminated.
"Get out," I said.
"Excuse me?" She blinked, offended. "You invited me in here—"
"I said get out," I roared, my voice bouncing off the walls. "Leave!"
She didn't argue. She grabbed her purse and scrambled out of the room, looking at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was.
I stood alone in the dark room, breathing heavily. My heart was hammering against my ribs.
I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of alcohol and hallucination.
It is the beer, I told myself. It is merely chemical impairment.
I ran a hand over my face.
I couldn't stay here.
I turned and exited the casino through the back entrance. The valet brought my car—the black SUV.
I got in. I didn't wait for him to close the door.
I drove.
I drove maniacally. The speedometer climbed. 100 km/h. 120 km/h. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon. I wove through traffic with calculated aggression, cutting off cars, ignoring signals.
My mind was singular.
Home.
The word felt foreign. I do not have a home. I have a residence. I have a headquarters.
But tonight, the GPS in my brain was locked on one coordinate. The Velour Noir. Floor 100.
?
I slammed the front door shut behind me. THUD.
The noise echoed through the vast, empty space of the living room.
I stood in the entryway, my chest heaving slightly. I loosened my tie, pulling it off completely and letting it drop to the floor.
The penthouse was dim. The only light came from the city outside and a single lamp near the sofa.
And there she was.
She was sitting on the sofa.
She was wearing those damned pink pajamas again. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. She was holding a mug in her hands.
She looked up at the sound of the door.
Her eyes were wide. She looked... waiting.
She wasn't asleep. She wasn't hiding in the guest room. She wasn't crying.
She saw me.
And she smiled.
It wasn't a big smile. It was a small, hesitant, soft thing.
"Husband," she whispered.
I stood there, swaying slightly from the alcohol and the adrenaline.
"You are awake," I stated. My voice sounded wrecked.
"I waited for you," she said simply.
She stood up. She placed the mug on the coffee table and walked toward me.
She looked so small. In her socks, she barely reached my chest.
She stopped in front of me. She tilted her head back to look at my face. She sniffed the air slightly.
"You smell like smoke," she noted. "And beer."
"I was working," I lied.
"At a brewery?" she teased gently.
She reached out. Her small hand hovered for a moment, then touched my arm.
"You look tired, Gabriel," she said.
She turned and picked up the mug from the table. She held it out to me.
"Coffee," she said. "Black. No sugar. Just how you like it. I made it when I heard the elevator ding."
I stared at the mug.
She made me coffee.
I rejected her three hours ago. I walked out on her. I left her crying in our bed. I went to a casino to erase her from my mind.
And she waited up to make me coffee.
Why?
What is the motive? Is this manipulation? Is she trying to secure her position?
My brain scrambled for a logical explanation, but found none.
I took the mug. My fingers brushed hers. The spark was there. ZAP.
I lifted it to my lips and drank. It was hot. Bitter. Perfect.
It grounded me.
"Aleizha," I said, lowering the mug.
"You need to change," she said, reaching for the button of my shirt. "Your clothes smell like the casino. I mean... the brewery."
Her fingers fumbled with the button.
"Let me take care of you," she whispered.
I froze.
Take care of me?
The words were alien. No one takes care of Gabriel Muratori. People fear Gabriel Muratori. People serve Gabriel Muratori. People take from Gabriel Muratori.
But take care of him?
Why? For rejecting her? Is this how she repays humiliation? With kindness?
Fuck no.
This is dangerous. This softness. This warmth. It is a trap. It is a weakness. If I lean into this, if I let her undress me and fuss over me, I will lose the upper hand. I will become like my siblings—compromised by emotion.
I stepped back.
Her hands fell away from my shirt. She looked confused.
"Gabriel?"
I cleared my throat. It felt like I was swallowing glass.
"I am fine," I said coldly. "I do not require assistance."
I placed the mug down on the entry table with a sharp clack.
"I am tired," I stated. "I am going to sleep."
I didn't look at her face. I couldn't. If I saw hurt in her eyes again, I might do something irrational.
I turned and walked past her.
"Goodnight," I muttered.
I stormed toward the master bedroom.
I entered the room. I didn't turn on the lights.
I stripped off my clothes in the dark, kicking them into a corner. I didn't bother with pajamas. I collapsed onto the bed in my boxers.
I buried my face in the pillow.
It smelled like her. Vanilla. Powder.
Fuck.
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the alcohol to drag me into unconsciousness.
But sleep did not come. Instead, a sensation of filth washed over me.
For the first time in my life, I felt... dirty.
I could still feel the phantom pressure of that stranger's hands on my biceps.
I could feel the ghost of her lips on the ink of my neck.
In the past, this would have been nothing—a simple biological interaction, forgotten within minutes.
But tonight, her touch felt like a stain. It felt like contamination.
I rubbed my arm aggressively against the sheets, trying to scrub the memory of the brunette away. I felt nauseous, not from the beer, but from the proximity of betrayal. I hadn't gone through with it, but I had let her touch me. I had sought it out.
And lying here now, surrounded by the pure, vanilla scent of the woman who waited up to make me coffee, that brief contact in the casino felt like a crime.