32. Gabriel
Grigori taps ash into the crystal tray like he didn't just paint the table with blood. "So," he drawls around his cigar, "are we playing cards or what?"
I look at Audra, worried the incident shook her. "It's okay if you don't want to?—"
She doesn't let me finish. "I'm fine."
Before I can answer, Audra moves. She slips behind the dealer's spot with surprising grace, black silk hugging every curve as she reaches for the fresh deck.
My breath catches. I expected hesitation.
Maybe even fear after what just happened.
Instead, she squares the cards between her hands and begins to shuffle like she was born with them in her fingers.
Fuck.
One fluid riffle, then she splits the deck and does a perfect waterfall.
The cards cascade through the air in a smooth, hypnotic arc before snapping back together.
She follows it with a quick one-handed cut and a flashy spin that makes the edges blur.
The table goes quiet for half a second. Even Grigori's eyebrows lift.
"What kind of poker are we playing tonight, gentlemen?" she asks, voice cool, professional, and steady as steel.
I have to clear my throat before I can speak. "Texas Hold'em. No limit."
She nods once, already breaking the deck into two piles. "Ante up, please."
Fucking hell. I thought I was bringing her here as a gift.
Something to let her live out an old dream while I kept her safe and close.
Instead, she's owning the table like she's been dealing high-stakes games her whole life.
The way her fingers move—precise, confident, almost seductive—has my cock throbbing painfully against my zipper.
I was hard the second I saw her in that black dress. Now? I'm aching.
She burns the top card, then deals the hole cards with crisp, elegant flicks.
Each card lands perfectly in front of every player.
When she slides mine across the felt, her eyes lift to mine for a fraction of a second.
Heat flares between us, dark, hungry, and electric.
I give her a slow wink. Her cheeks flush the faintest pink, but her hands never falter.
Good girl.
The others toss in their chips. Grigori slides a fat stack forward with a lazy grin, the psychopath actually winking at me through the thick smoke of his cigar, like this is all foreplay to him.
I'm still pissed he beat me to the punch with the doctor, but he's Bratva royalty here on business, so I keep my mouth shut.
"Raise," Alessio mutters, tossing more chips in.
Audra watches the action like a hawk, her expression unreadable, professional. But when her gaze drifts back to me between hands, there's something else there, something raw and wanting that makes my blood burn. She's killing me.
She's showing every man at this table—including me—that she doesn't need protecting.
Not here. Not with cards in her hands. She's magnificent.
The game moves fast. Chips clack. Curses fly when the flop hits.
When Damiano drags in a massive pot with a full house, he tips her generously, and two black chips slide across the felt with a respectful nod.
"Beautifully dealt, Miss Hale."
Audra gives him a small, professional smile. "Thank you."
But when she looks at me again, that smile shifts. Softer. Hotter. Just for me. Another wave of pure lust rolls through me. I want to bend her over this fucking table in front of all of them and remind her exactly who she belongs to.
She deals the next round, and I catch the subtle way she bites her lip when our eyes lock again.
The guilt is still there—I can see it flickering behind her eyes—but so is the hunger.
The same hunger that's been clawing at me since the moment I laid eyes on her.
This woman is going to be the death of me.
And I'm going to enjoy every second of it.
The game moves around me, but I'm barely in it.
Fortunes shift across the felt. I couldn't tell you if I'm up or down three million.
My eyes stay glued to her—Audra—every precise movement of her hands, the way the black silk stretches across her breasts when she leans forward to burn a card, the focused line between her brows.
She's a fucking vision behind that table.
Alessio wins a massive pot off me with a rivered straight. He leans back, grinning like a shark. "Yo, Gabe. Where the fuck is your head tonight, man?"
Damiano barks a laugh. "His other head's got all the blood, clearly."
The whole table erupts. Even Grigori chuckles around his cigar. Audra doesn't miss a beat. She arches one elegant brow, dealing the next round with flawless precision.
"Gentlemen," she says smoothly, her voice is as soft velvet over steel, "if you're going to discuss anatomy at my table, at least wait until I'm not holding the deck. Some of us are trying to work."
A stunned second of silence, then the entire table explodes with deep, appreciative laughter. Grigori actually slaps the felt, eyes gleaming with respect.
"Fuck, I like her," he mutters.
I'm gone. Completely fucking smitten. My chest feels too tight and my cock too hard, and every smart, fearless word out of her mouth winds me tighter. Grigori suddenly points his cigar toward another high-stakes table across the room. "Who's that asshole over there with the crazy eyes?"
I follow his gaze. "Rodney Billing. Our beloved mayor."
Grigori's smile turns feral. "He'll be dead soon."
I nod once. "I don't like his eyes either."
Audra glances between us, then quips without missing a deal, "Should I deal the next hand or wait until after the assassination planning session?"
Grigori laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his cigar. He slides two black chips across the felt to her.
"For that mouth." He winks, almost proud.
She pockets them with a small, professional nod, but her eyes flick to me, dark, heated, excited. My restraint is hanging by a thread.
The tournament narrows. Massimo, Alessio, and Damiano cash out.
It comes down to the final two: Grigori and some slick Silicon Valley internet guru who's been sweating through his designer shirt for the last hour.
Audra deals the last hand like a goddamn queen.
The river card falls. Grigori flips over quads.
The tech bro stares at the table in disbelief.
Grigori leans back, cigar clamped between his teeth, looking bored and victorious at the same time. "Good game."
Audra stacks the chips with elegant efficiency, then offers the Russian a genuine smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Arsenyev."
He tips her heavily—another stack of blacks—then rises, nodding to me. "Until next time, D'Amato."
The room clears. I'm already moving, guiding Audra out with a hand pressed possessively to the small of her back. The second we're in the private bar overlooking the casino floor, I pull her close.
"You were incredible," I murmur against her ear.
She opens her clutch and tilts it toward me. It's stuffed with black and red chips. "I can't believe I got tipped all this money."
"You earned every fucking chip, baby." My voice is rough. "Sit."
She slides onto the leather stool, legs crossing, black silk riding high on her thigh. I flag the bartender.
"What are you drinking?"
Audra surprises me again. No fruity cocktail. No hesitation.
"Tequila. Straight."
I raise an eyebrow, while heat curls low in my gut. "Bottle," I tell the bartender.
He sets it down with two shot glasses. She pours her own first, throws it back like water, and doesn't even flinch.
I chuckle, pouring mine. "Careful, sweetheart."
She smiles, slow and dangerous, licking a drop from her lower lip. "I don't get drunk. Ever. No matter how much I drink. I'm immune."
The challenge in her voice goes straight to my cock. I lean in, brushing my knuckles down her bare arm.
"Is that so?" I murmur in a low voice because I have no breath left. "Then we'll just have to test that theory."
Her breath catches. Guilt flickers in her eyes for half a second—Pete's ghost—but the heat wins. She pours us both another shot and clinks her glass against mine.
"To immunity," she whispers.
I drink, never taking my eyes off her. The bottle stays. And so does the fire between us, burning hotter with every shot, every heated look, every brush of her knee against mine under the bar.
We stay far longer than we should. Shot after shot disappears between us, and with every glass she throws back, Audra becomes more dangerous.
Her laugh is low and husky. Her eyes gleam with tequila and courage.
My hand rests high on her thigh under the bar, my thumb strokes slow, possessive circles over the cool silk.
Every time she shifts, the dress rides higher, and I have to fight the urge to drag her onto my lap.
"You really don't get drunk?" I murmur.
She shakes her head, smiling even as she balance checks. "I'm immune. Or… I used to be." She pours us both another. "Guess I'm a little rusty."
A low chuckle rolls out of me. "I like you rusty."
The heat between us is suffocating now. Thick. Electric. Her guilt is still there—I see it flicker behind her eyes every few minutes—but the tequila keeps drowning it, and every time she leans in closer, I feel her losing the fight. I want her to lose.
Eventually, I stand and offer my hand. "Come on, sweetheart. Time to get you upstairs before I do something reckless right here in front of everyone."
She laughs for just a second; I see a challenge awaken in her eyes, but she pushes it back down and takes my hand. She's a bit unsteady in her heels and leans heavily onto my arm. I take her waist all too gladly and guide her back to the elevator. The ride up is pure torture.
The second the doors close, she sways. I catch her instantly, both hands on her waist, steadying her against my body. She's warm. Soft. Perfect.
"I'm a bit tipsy," she admits, cheeks flushed. "But in my defense… I haven't really drunk anything in years. So I just need to build my immunity back up."
I laugh—rich, deep, delighted—and cup her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. "I'm enjoying the hell out of watching you try."
Her eyes drop to my mouth. The air crackles. I'm so hard it hurts, and she has to feel it pressing against her stomach. I want to pin her to the elevator wall and take her right here, but I force myself to wait. Barely.
Back in the penthouse, I escort her down the hall like she's both precious and breakable. At the door to her suite, she stops and turns to me.
"Thank you," she whispers, voice soft. "For everything tonight."
Then she rises onto her tiptoes and kisses me. The world stops. Her lips are warm, hesitant, tasting like tequila and courage and her. For half a second, I'm frozen, stunned that she made the first move.
Then the leash I've been clinging to for weeks snaps clean in half.
I growl—low, feral, broken—and fist my hand in her hair, yanking her hard against me.
My other arm bands around her waist like steel as I devour her mouth.
No softness. No restraint. I kiss her like a man who's been starving for months.
Tongue sliding deep, teeth grazing her lip, claiming every inch of her mouth like I've wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on her.
Audra moans into me, her fingers curling tight into my shirt, pulling me closer. The sound shoots straight to my cock. I press her back against the door, grinding my hips into hers so she can feel exactly how badly I need her. How long I've been suffering.
"Fuck, Audra," I rasp against her swollen lips, my voice wrecked. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
She doesn't answer with words. She kisses me harder, pouring every conflicted, guilty, aching emotion into it. I taste the guilt. I taste the war inside her. And it only makes me hungrier. Because she's still choosing this. Choosing me.
My hand slides down, gripping her ass possessively, lifting her until she's on her toes, her body flush against mine. I drag my mouth to her jaw, her throat, sucking a dark mark right below her ear. Mine. The whole fucking world can see it tomorrow.
She gasps my name, trembling. I pull back just enough to look at her, eyes black with lust, chest heaving, forehead pressed to hers.
"Tell me to stop," I growl, the words tearing out of me like they physically hurt. "Tell me right now, because once I take you inside that room… I won't be gentle. And I won't let you go."
Her breath shudders. I see the storm in her eyes—guilt, desire, fear, need—all of it crashing together.
And then she says the words that might as well have been a bullet; they hit with the same intensity. "Please stop."