Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DOMINIC
The heavy oak doors of the private casino lounge close behind us, cutting off the muted buzz of the main floor and sealing us into a room that reeks of aged whiskey, cigar smoke, and astronomical wealth.
I feel Rosalia stiffen beside me the moment the council members turn to face us. Her spine goes rigid, her chin tilting upward in that defensive posture she wears whenever she feels cornered.
I offer her no reassuring hand at the small of her back. I don't reach out to steady her. If she is going to navigate this world at my side, she needs to learn how to stand in the pit without looking for a lifeline.
I know she can do it. She has proved herself to me many times.
"Boss," Abram greets, his voice dripping with easy, practiced charm. He steps forward, gesturing to the sleek, manicured woman at his side whose smile is as sharp and vacant as a diamond and introduces his wife to Rosalia. "Please meet my wife, Elena.”
Introductions roll around the room like a choreographed dance. Handshakes are exchanged, thin smiles are flashed, and polite, superficial compliments are tossed toward Rosalia.
Marcus introduces his wife, Beatrice, with a brief nod, while Yulian presents his young wife, Anya, who offers Rosalia a tight, rehearsed smile.
"She’s lovely, Dominic," Elena coos, her eyes sweeping over Rosalia with the calculating efficiency of an appraiser evaluating jewelry. "It’s always nice to see a new face among us."
Beside Elena, Beatrice and Anya nod in silent, synchronized approval, their expressions polished to a flawless shine that hides whatever venom brews beneath.
Rosalia offers a tight nod, her jaw set so hard I can see the faint pulse in her cheek. She loathes every second of it—the performative laughter, the suffocating politeness, the unspoken hierarchy that places her under a microscope.
She shoots a brief, burning glance toward me, silently demanding I shift the attention away from her.
I meet her gaze with complete indifference, taking a slow sip from my glass and letting the silence stretch. Let her sweat.
Before the tension in the air can snap, the heavy velvet curtain near the back of the private room rustles. A casino staff member in a crisp, tailored vest steps out, bowing his head in quiet deference.
"Good evening, gentlemen, ladies," the employee announces smoothly. "Your table is ready."
He gestures toward the center of the room, where a plush velvet poker table sits beneath a low-hanging brass chandelier, surrounded by leather armchairs that practically invite ruin.
"Shall we?" Marcus murmurs, gesturing toward the green felt as Yulian unbuttons his suit jacket and steps forward.
The wives drift toward the lounge seating along the perimeter, their quiet murmurings instantly resuming as they gather like silk-clad vultures.
Rosalia stands frozen for a fraction of a second, caught between the cold reception of the women and the high-stakes table where the men are already taking their seats.
She looks back at me one last time. I simply hold her eye, take my seat at the head of the table, and motion for the dealer to cut the deck.
The chips fall across the felt with a quiet, rhythmically lethal click.
I play with accuracy, keeping my hands light on the cards and my face completely unreadable.
It would be effortless to strip them down to their cuff links.
I can read the tells written across their faces like cheap print: Abram leans into his right shoulder when he's bluffing, Marcus's jaw tightens whenever he holds a paired hand, and Yulian has a subtle habit of tapping his index finger on the mahogany rim before raising the pot.
I win three hands in a row, pulling in moderate stacks without raising an eyebrow. But on the fourth, when the river brings me a full house that could easily wipe out Yulian's entire buy-in, I quietly fold.
Winning everything isn't the goal tonight. Men like Abram, Marcus, and Yulian live on fragile, towering egos. If I strip them completely bare on the green felt and wipe the table with their pride, it triggers a different kind of desperation.
Bitter men make volatile allies, and I prefer to keep these three docile beneath me—fed just enough victory to stay comfortable but restrained enough to remember who allows them to sit at this table.
We play through several rounds, the stack of chips shifting between us like a controlled tide. I let Marcus take a substantial pot off a modest flush, watching the tension leave his shoulders as he chuckles, swelling with unearned confidence.
Abram lands a high card turn that keeps him in the green, while Yulian holds his own just enough to stay satisfied. I stay in the middle—dominant enough to command respect, but modest enough to let them feel like contenders.
Beside the table, the wives' low chatter serves as background noise to the clinking of crystal glasses and the smooth slide of cards across the green baize.
Every now and then, I catch Rosalia in the corner of my vision. She sits near the lounge area, stiff as a statue, enduring the backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive scrutiny of the council wives with a tightly locked jaw.
After nearly three hours, the white-vested floor manager steps back into the private alcove, executing an immaculate bow.
"Gentlemen, your meal is served in the private dining salon," he announces softly.
Abram scoops his remaining chips toward the dealer with a pleased grunt, tossing his silk napkin onto the felt. "Timing couldn't be better. I'm famished."
"A fine game, boss," Marcus says, standing up and buttoning his jacket, clearly puffed up from his late-hand victory. "Though I reckon another hour and I would have cleaned you out."
"Perhaps next time, Marcus," I reply smoothly, standing up and flattening the lapels of my suit.
I step away from the table and extend an arm toward Rosalia, who rises almost instantly from the couch, eager to escape the women's circle. As her fingers rest lightly on my forearm, I feel the residual tension hummed into her skin.
"Dinner," I murmur for her ears only. "Try not to choke on the hypocrisy."
She bites back a laugh, a quiet, involuntary huff of air against my arm as we walk toward the private dining room. We take our seats around a massive mahogany table lit by muted crystal sconces.
Course after course arrives with seamless timing: seared scallop carpaccio, roasted quail over truffle cream, rich cuts of wagyu paired with vintage cabernet.
The conversation drifts across expected territory—offshore investments, private port concessions, and the shifting political landscape in the city.
Abram, Marcus, and Yulian hold court, while their wives interject with rehearsed laughter and practiced elegance.
Rosalia plays her part quietly, navigating the silverware with effortless composure. But Elena can only hold her tongue for so long.
"Rosalia, dear," Elena coos, leaning across the table during the fourth course, her fork delicately balancing a slice of venison.
Her voice is dipped in sugar, but the eyes are pure venom.
"We were all just wondering... it must be quite an adjustment for you, coming into Dominic’s world.
Some people find the background requirements rather...
intimidating. Tell us, where did you complete your education? "
The room settles into a loaded, expectant quiet. Abram sips his wine, hiding a smirk, while Beatrice and Anya watch with bright, gleeful eyes, waiting to see the outsider squirm.
I don't interrupt. I tilt my glass, watching Rosalia over the rim.
I know her well enough now, and I’m as excited as the women to hear her answer. Though for different reasons. She’s about to sweep the floor with Elena.
Rosalia doesn't flinch. She sets her linen napkin down on the polished mahogany, dabbed lightly at the corner of her mouth, and fixes Elena with a smile that could freeze liquid silver.
"My education taught me how to read people before they even open their mouths, Elena," Rosalia says smoothly, her tone as warm and inviting as a summer afternoon.
"It’s a remarkably useful skill. For instance, it allows me to spot the difference between genuine pedigree and women who simply spent their years perfecting their husbands' favorite accents. "
Aha!
I knew it! Even funnier than I anticipated. I would have laughed if I wasn’t the head of this table.
A sharp beat of stunned silence hangs in the air.
Then, Beatrice lets out a sudden bark of laughter she can't quite contain. Anya covers her mouth with a manicured hand, her shoulders shaking, while Yulian lets out a low, booming chuckle from the end of the table. Elena’s face turns pale, her lips pressing into a thin, white line as she struggles to find a retort that won't make her look even more foolish.
"Well," Abram chuckles, raising his glass toward Rosalia in quiet respect. "Touché."
I let the ghost of a smirk touch my lips, swirling the dark wine in my glass.
After dinner, the party splits as the waiters clear the dessert plates.
I step toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall overlooking the private terrace with Abram, Marcus, and Yulian, lit cigars in hand, to finalize the shipping routes we skirted around during the card game.
Behind us, the wives lead Rosalia toward the adjacent terrace lounge, heading out into the cool night air to gather around the marble fire pit for post-dinner cordials and espresso.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the shift in dynamic on the terrace. Beatrice and Anya are trailing Rosalia now, completely captivated by her, hanging on her words like converts while Elena lingers near the railing, nursing her drink in bitter silence.
Good.
Rosalia established her authority, and the pack instinctively aligned with the stronger presence.
I turn my full attention back to the men, keeping my voice low and measured as we talk numbers and territorial boundaries over the low burn of our cigars. Abram and Marcus nod along, fully receptive, the edge taken off their egos by the deliberate pacing of the card game.
The next time I glance over toward the lounge, the atmosphere has changed. The women are scattered across the far side of the space, laughing together near the marble bar.
Rosalia is standing near the hallway leading back from the rest rooms. A man—someone's extended guest or a wealthy frequent flyer at the casino—is leaning far too close to her.
Even from across the room, her body language screams irritation.
Her arms are crossed, her face turned away, looking deeply uninterested as he continues to talk over her.
She makes a move to step right past him, cutting the interaction short, but the fool makes the fatal mistake of reaching out and grabbing her hand to pull her back.
I don't think.
I cross the distance between the glass doors and the hallway in seconds, the world narrowing down to the exact spot where his fingers touch her skin.
Before he can even register my shadow falling over him, I have a fist clamped into the front collar of his designer shirt.
I wrench him upward, lifting him clear off the ground until his leather shoes are dangling inches above the polished marble.
His eyes go wide with instant, unadulterated terror as his hands claw uselessly at my wrist, his face rapidly losing color.
"Dominic, stop."
Rosalia’s hand suddenly lands firm against my chest, her fingers digging through my suit jacket. She steps directly into my space, her eyes steady on mine, placing herself right between me and the suffocating man.
I let go.
He clatters onto the marble floor in a heap of tangled limbs and gasping breaths, scrambling backward like a terrified animal until his back hits the far wall. He looks up at me, white-faced, stammering apologies that I don't care to listen to.
I don't look down at him. My eyes stay locked on Rosalia, a dark, hot pressure expanding behind my ribs. The violent impulse to snap every finger on the hand he used to touch her beats rhythmically against my temples, but I keep my jaw set, my face an impenetrable mask.
"Get out," I say, my voice dangerously low, stripped of any volume but carrying enough weight to make the man stumble frantically to his feet and bolt into the hallway.
The lounge has gone quiet. Across the room, Abram, Marcus, and the rest of the terrace guests are watching in uneasy silence.
The dark edge of my control has cracked just enough for them to see what lives underneath, but I have no interest in offering an explanation or smoothing it over with polite small talk.
"We're leaving," I tell Rosalia.
I take her by the elbow—firmly, though careful not to squeeze—and lead her away from the terrace before anyone can utter a word of farewell.
We pass through the private doors, past the bow of the floor manager, and straight out into the cool night air where the driver already stands with the door to the car held wide.
I usher her inside and slide in beside her, slamming the heavy door shut behind us.
The engine hums to life, and the private casino dissolves into the dark city lights outside the tinted glass.
Inside the cabin, the silence is thick, suffocating, and charged.
I sit back against the leather, staring straight ahead, the image of his fingers around her wrist still burning behind my eyes.
I flex my hand against my knee, feeling the lingering urge to tear the whole world down.
This woman will be the end of me. I just know it.