Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
ENZO
“Last game of the night, gentlemen,” the dealer announces, the final cards gliding across the green baize in front of each of us.
This is why I love Monaco. It’s where I saw my first stripper and had my first fuck. It’s discretion and power all wrapped up in one, and high stakes have jack shit to do with cards or money.
Betting big means betting it all. A car. A house. A man’s wife for a week of depraved, no-holds-barred submission.
A man’s life.
Power doesn’t just exchange hands; it dances, whirls, and intoxicates with the potency of sex and the addiction of a drug.
“Your poker face hides a lot, Enzo. But not everything,” Uncle Andre says as he studies his cards. His eyes lift to his dwindled pile of chips, and his sly, calculated grin remains intact.
My poker face hides a lot . He should know. Right now, I’m thinking about twelve inches of serrated steel slicing through his throat .
But I keep a clear head and offer nothing more than a nod of acknowledgment.
To my left is a prince of some wealthy but irrelevant country. To my right, a Belgian financier. And next to him, a recently engaged nouveau-riche tech mogul.
Uncle Andre’s flowery words aren’t worthy of my attention at the moment. My gaze has drifted to the woman who just entered the room. My eyes roam every part of her, but not her face. Never again her face.
That angelic face has tortured my dreams and toyed with my sanity, and tonight, she chose red.
Red .
A red dress.
That damned red dress and the way it teases her thighs and caresses every alluring curve of her body... I swear, she’ll be the death of me.
I steady my pulse as she takes two steps in my direction. The gold band on my finger suddenly weighs a fucking ton. But it’s her wedding ring that breaks the spell. As soon as it catches the light, my jaw clenches, and I blink back to the game.
Of course, it catches the light. How could it not? The damned thing is as big as the moon and cost me more than my yacht.
She’s worth a million times more.
Shut up.
In my periphery, her lean legs and come-fuck-me stilettos step closer, and my dick throbs with approval and need.
Not you again. You’re the dumbass that got us into this mess.
The problem is, she’s not alone. My brothers are here. Dante sidles up beside her, and Dillon has the audacity to lead her in by the hand. Does he think I don’t notice his other hand is on the small of her back?
I see you, fucker.
I suspect Mateo is lurking about somewhere. And Smoke, no doubt, is with him.
At least Trinity is smart enough not to enter this war zone. And make no mistake. This is a war.
It’s her scent that hits me first. Those tender notes of floral and citrus and... her .
“Can we talk?” Her voice is barely above a whisper, and her perfume wafts around me so tightly it strangles my senses.
God, I want to say yes.
Every fiber of my soulless being demands I say yes.
But my mind locks on the thought of her again—of her begging Uncle Andre for mercy. Dorian overheard every word, and if he hadn’t delivered the invitation when he did, who knows what would have happened.
She’s a Mullvain. Ready and willing to do anything for me and I know I have to let her go.
All thoughts of us—a future—snap apart like a leg in a trap. Except it isn’t a leg. It’s my heart.
I do what I do best. What I’m known for. I crush all her precious hopes away. “Unless you’re here in a reverse harem situation with my brothers, you’re wasting your time.”
“As long as we have your permission.” Dante smirks, patting me once on the back.
I take a needed breath and refrain from snapping his fingers in half.
Concentrating, my jaw clamps down tight enough to break a tooth. I toss back the rest of my scotch and motion for more. I study the cards in my hand and remind myself that the banker has a jet I’ve been eying.
The tech geek tugs at his collar. “Do you take bitcoin?”
I roll my eyes. For fuck’s sake. Annoyed, I turn to the Belgian host of our room. I translate the request. “ Acceptez-vous les crypto-monnaies ?”
He shakes his head. “ Non .”
I repeat. “No.” Moron.
The tech geek’s wife-to-be stands behind him in a white slip of a dress that accentuates her massive breasts and a diamond choker around her slim neck.
Hmm . If he offers her up, I don’t care what the Belgian says. I’m saying yes. She’d look absolutely ravishing on all fours, wearing nothing but that necklace with my dick down her throat.
While the rest of them watch, of course.
Especially her .
My wife.
Her red dress is now flanked by my brothers, and it feels like sharpened fingernails against the inside of my chest.
Yes. Another woman is what I need. Preferably, a few of them at once. That would teach the one and only Mrs. Enzo D’Angelo not to fuck with me. Dangling a skimpy red dress in front of an outraged bull...She gets what she gets.
God, stop thinking of her.
The dealer deals me another card, and it looks like I’ve just been dealt my winning hand. A smile tugs at my lips. I toss out another pile of chips. “Raise.”
“I’m out,” says His Royal Highness, angrily tossing his cards onto the table .
Pussy .
“Me, too,” the tech guy says.
I pass a glance at the virginal, wide-eyed beauty standing behind him.
Pity.
The Belgian twirls the edge of his mustache, deep in thought. Slowly, he nods to the attendant, who presents a solid gold chip with the imprint of a jet on it.
Considering I’m pretty sure his hand consists of at least one numbered card—probably a three—I nearly come on the spot at the thought of his jet being mine.
Or maybe it’s my Bella’s hand sliding across my shoulder. She’s asking for a punishment.
She’s about to have that red fucking dress ripped off her and have her soft skin and toned body slammed up against the nearest wall until she’s begging for mercy and finally realizes once and for all who’s boss.
I am.
And all I need is to hear her say so while I’m driving into that sweet, tight body of hers.
One last good fuck is exactly what I need. To fuck her out of my system.
For good.
Ever the cock blocker, Uncle Andre clears his throat, snapping me from my millionth fantasy of her today.
I cast a wary glance at him as he pretends to thoroughly inspect his cards...as if the past three minutes have magically changed his hand. I raise a brow. “Well?”
With feigned nonchalance, he taps his cards on the table before shoving his stack of chips into the center .
A smirk graces my lips. “You seem to be a bit short.” Like the rest of all five-foot-three of him.
“Not exactly.” Andre’s meaty hand slaps an envelope onto the table.
The chips lose all their luster against the crisp parchment pouch.
It’s about goddamned time. I kick around his request. “How many?”
“Just one,” he says, eagerly adding, “You’ll like her in this pose. It’s one of my favorites.”
I study my hand carefully, my face a mask of composure. Any allegiance I had to my father’s brother died so long ago that I don’t remember it at all.
Briefly, I consider lighting the envelope on fire and shoving it up his ass. I know nobody here would waste a drop of sweat, spit, or piss to put it out.
As if reading my mind, he adds, “ Your new favorite.”
I love dirty secrets. They make the best leverage. Too bad this time the secrets are Bella’s , and the leverage is my life.
Before I can stop myself, I hold the envelope up to the light, the shadow of its contents a subtle threat to my composure.
With a calculated move, I secure the envelope in my breast pocket. “Consider this one a gift. But if I win, I get them all. Every last one.”
Uncle Andre takes a sip of his aged whiskey, his grin souring as he speaks. “Fine. And if I win, you owe me.”
I owe him? The words grate against my skin like sandpaper on an open wound. I know why he wants this. I’m the biggest thorn in his side, and he wants a blank check. Me, with an electric leash around my neck .
So be it. Anything for my wife. But I won’t make it easy.
My Belgian friend silently folds and pats me on the shoulder. He’s bowing out because he’s smart enough to know better than to tiptoe across a D’Angelo family squabble—and the line of fire of an all-out war.
Losing patience by the breath, I snap. “I’m not sliding my neck into the guillotine to try it on for size. Name your price now for every last photo, or fold.”
His fat fingers snap for an attendant, who places a pad of paper and pen in his hand. My uncle scrawls his demand on the sheet of paper, folds it up, and sets it on the pile.
As soon as I reach for it, his hand slams hard against mine. “I wrote it down. My price. We play out the hand before you look.” He leans in, taunting me with his tone. “It’s called gambling for a reason.”
The thing is, people think I’m reckless. But I’m calculated. Every step. Every angle. Strategic moves executed with patience and precision.
But with my wife here, I’m distracted. I can never concentrate when every curve of her is blocking my view of the chessboard Uncle Andre has laid at my feet.
I tap an annoyed finger on the table and scan the room.
My brothers want peace.
My uncle wants me under his thumb.
And my wife? Well, she wants me dead.
But first things first. I want something, too. And I want it so badly that I’m willing to trade anything for it. My sanity. My soul. My life.
“Enzo,” she cajoles softly. But I can’t hear her.
All I hear is the sound of blood raging in my ears .
I focus all my attention on Uncle Andre. You want me, motherfucker? Then let’s do this . In a rush of adrenaline, I go with my gut. I flip over all my cards and slam them down. “Call.”
He does the same, and my face falls as soon as I see his hand.
Fuck .