Chapter 12 Santino
The poker game is taking place in a private room above a restaurant in the old quarter of Genoa, the kind of establishment that doesn't advertise its existence with a name on the door.
This is the kind of place where serious money changes hands in hushed tones, where deals are made over cards and cognac, where nobody asks questions about the source of the cash piled on the table. Discretion is a currency here, worth more than the euros being wagered.
There are six of us seated around the felt-covered table tonight.
Myself. Dmitri Volkov and his brother Alexei—Russians who control the northern shipping lanes with an iron fist and connections that reach all the way to Moscow.
Carlo Salvatore, who runs most of the gambling operations in the city through a network of establishments both legitimate and otherwise.
And two others, associates of the Volkovs whose names I don't care to remember because they're not important enough to warrant the mental space.
The stakes tonight are high. Very high. This isn't really about the money, though there's plenty of that scattered across the green felt—easily a hundred thousand euros in play.
It's about power dynamics. Territory negotiations.
Respect earned and respect given. Every hand is a test, every bet a statement.
I'm currently up by thirty thousand euros, a comfortable lead that's making me look good.
Dmitri is down by approximately the same amount, his losses matching my gains almost exactly.
He's not happy about it, his jaw tight, his eyes calculating as he tries to read my tells and find a weakness to exploit.
My phone has been buzzing insistently in my jacket pocket for the last hour, a persistent vibration that I've been deliberately ignoring. I know without checking who's calling and texting. It's Liana. It's always Liana.
Since Friday night, since she left half her life scattered throughout my apartment like territorial markers, she's been texting me constantly.
Questions about how my day went. Photos of furniture and decorative items she wants to buy for "our place.
" Suggestions for weekend plans that invariably involve her spending more time in my personal space.
The messages come at all hours, a steady stream of exclamation points and heart emojis.
I haven't responded to most of them. I need space to think clearly. I need distance to figure out what the hell is actually happening between us without her particular brand of chaos clouding my judgment and making rational thought impossible.
"Your bet, Marcello," Carlo says, pulling me back to the present moment.
I look down at my cards, assessing the hand. A strong combination. Not unbeatable, but definitely worth playing aggressively.
I push twenty thousand euros into the center of the table with confidence.
Dmitri's eyes narrow as he watches me, trying to read my expression, searching for any tell that might reveal whether I'm bluffing or holding genuine strength. Good luck with that. I've been playing poker since I was sixteen, and my face doesn't give anything away.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. And again. And again. Three times in rapid succession.
"Someone is very eager to reach you," Dmitri observes in his heavy Russian accent, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"It's nothing," I say dismissively, keeping my attention on the cards.
"A woman?" Alexei grins, leaning back in his chair. "It's always a woman when a man ignores his phone with that particular expression. Trust me, I know that look."
"My fiancée," I admit, seeing no point in lying when they'll find out eventually anyway.
"Ah, the Costa girl." Dmitri leans back in his chair. "I heard about that arrangement between your families. Very advantageous for you, taking over their operations."
"It's mutually beneficial," I correct. "Both families gain from the alliance."
"I'm sure," he says, his tone suggesting he thinks otherwise, that he sees exactly what this marriage contract really represents. "Although I hear she is spirited. That's the word being used in certain circles."
Word travels fast in our world. Too fast. I make a mental note to have a conversation with my crew about discretion.
"She's fine," I say curtly, hoping to end this line of conversation.
Carlo laughs, the sound carrying across the table. "Fine? That's one way to describe it. I heard she waved your gun around like it was a toy. Made your entire crew nervous."
Fuck. Does everyone in the city know about that incident? I'm going to kill Paulie.
"She was curious about firearms," I say tightly, maintaining my composure. "Nothing more."
"Curious." Dmitri exchanges a meaningful look with his brother, a silent communication passing between them. "That's certainly one word for that kind of behavior."
I'm about to respond—about to defend Liana or change the subject, I'm not sure which—when there's a sudden commotion from downstairs. Raised voices echoing up the stairwell. Someone arguing with what sounds like security. A woman's voice, high and insistent.
We all tense immediately, years of survival instincts kicking in. Hands move reflexively toward weapons hidden under tailored jackets. In our world, unexpected interruptions often come with violence.
Then I hear it. A voice I recognize instantly, even distorted by distance and anger.
"I know he's here! I need to see him! It's important!"
No. She wouldn't. She couldn't possibly—
But apparently, she would, because I hear footsteps on the stairs now. Fast. Determined. The door to the private room bursts open with dramatic force, slamming against the wall.
Liana stands there in the doorway, and my brain struggles to process what I'm seeing.
She's wearing a dress that barely qualifies as clothing, more suggestion than actual fabric.
Red, incredibly tight, short enough that I can see the top of her thighs and then some.
The neckline plunges dangerously low, revealing more skin than I've ever seen her show in public.
Her dark hair is wild and slightly disheveled, like she's been running through the streets. Her cheeks are flushed pink, whether from exertion or emotion I can't tell.
Every man at the table turns to stare at her, their attention completely captured by her sudden dramatic entrance.
"Santo!" She spots me immediately, her face lighting up with obvious relief. "There you are! I've been trying to reach you for hours! Why weren't you answering?"
I stand slowly, my chair scraping against the wooden floor with a harsh sound. My mind is racing, trying to understand what's happening. "Liana. What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you, obviously! You weren't answering your phone. I got worried." She strolls into the room. "Are you okay? Is everything alright? I thought something might have happened."
The other men are still staring, their eyes tracking her movement across the room. Staring at her legs, smooth and endless. At her breasts, barely contained by that ridiculous dress. At the way the fabric clings to every curve of her body like a second skin.
My hand clenches into a fist at my side. "I'm in the middle of a meeting," I say, my voice carefully controlled, though I can feel anger simmering beneath the surface. "An important private meeting."
"Oh! A meeting." She looks around at the poker table as if seeing it for the first time, taking in the cards, the chips, the substantial piles of cash scattered across the green felt. "This doesn't look like a meeting. It looks like a game. Are you playing poker? I love card games."
"It's business," I say firmly. "Business conducted over poker."
"Business poker! That sounds fun." She walks closer to me, and the dress rides up even higher with each step, revealing more skin. "Can I watch? I promise I'll be quiet."
"No. Absolutely not."
"Why not? I promise I'll be good."
Dmitri chuckles from across the table, clearly enjoying this disruption to our game. "Let her watch, Marcello. It's just a friendly game between associates, no?"
It's not just a game. It's never just a game. There are negotiations happening here, power dynamics being established, respect being earned or lost with every hand. This is business disguised as recreation.
"There are no chairs available," I say to Liana, hoping this practical obstacle will convince her to leave.
"That's okay!" She's already beside me now. "I'll just sit here."
Before I can process what she's planning, before I can stop her, she slides gracefully onto my lap.
Every muscle in my body goes rigid with shock and something else. The first thing I feel is heat, her bare thighs settling over mine, the thin silk of her dress doing nothing to mask the softness of her skin.
She’s warm, sun-kissed from the afternoon, and the weight of her ass presses directly against my groin.
My cock, already interested from the sight of her in that dress, jerks awake like it’s been shocked with a live wire.
Blood rushes south so fast I feel it in my teeth.
In seconds I’m fully, painfully hard, the thick ridge of my erection straining against the zipper of my slacks, trapped between her body and mine.
Jesus Christ. The thought ricochets through my skull, raw and frantic. She’s going to feel that. She has to.
I try to shift my hips, to create even an inch of space, but she just follows the movement, nestling deeper, her ass cheeks cradling my shaft through the layers of fabric. The friction is maddening, soft, deliberate pressure that makes my pulse hammer in my ears.
My hands hover uselessly at my sides for half a heartbeat before instinct takes over; one palm lands on the curve of her waist, fingers digging in to anchor her, to stop the torturous little wiggles she’s making to “get comfortable.”
My mind is a riot of conflicting signals.
Get her off me.
Now.
Before anyone notices.
Don’t you dare move her.