22. The Gamble #2
“Let’s raise the stakes then,” I say, placing another bold bet on the table, pushing more chips forward. The dealer nods, adjusting the board.
Damian hums in amusement, but I don’t look at him. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Feeling bold, princess?”
I smirk. “Always.”
I roll the dice, letting them tumble across the felt, watching as they bounce—a slow, agonizing moment of suspense.
The table holds its breath.
Then—
“Winner!”
The crowd erupts again, and I let out a quiet, satisfied laugh as another rush of chips is pushed toward me.
Damian, still silent beside me, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a single red chip.
It stands out immediately. It’s heavier than the others, deeper in color, almost ominous. He twirls it between his fingers before setting it down in front of me.
“A gift,” he murmurs.
I arch a brow, eyeing the chip before flicking my gaze back to him. “What’s it worth?”
His smirk is slow, deliberate. “Depends on how you play your cards.”
The tension between us sharpens, electric, curling low in my stomach.
This is dangerous. And I think I like it.
I let my fingers graze over the red chip Damian placed in front of me, feeling the weight of it, the implied meaning behind it. A gift, he called it. But with a man like Damian LaCampanella, nothing is ever just a gift.
I glance up at him, finding that smirk still in place, his gaze heavy with something amused, unreadable. The crowd around us is still buzzing with excitement from my win, but Damian doesn’t seem concerned with them. He’s only watching me.
I pick up the chip, turning it between my fingers. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with this?”
He tilts his head slightly, as if considering his words. Then, in that same low, measured voice, he says, “Follow me, and I’ll show you.”
My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression even.
Damian doesn’t wait for my answer. He reaches down, grabbing his own stack of chips and pocketing them before turning toward the far side of the casino.
For a split second, I hesitate.
I should be careful. This is his world, his territory, and I don’t like stepping into a game when I don’t know the rules.
But I’m Nichole Beretti.
And I never back down from a challenge.
So, without another word, I follow.
Damian leads me through the casino, weaving past blackjack tables and the roulette wheel. I catch a few men nodding in his direction, a quiet acknowledgment of who he is, of what he represents. But no one stops him.
They wouldn’t dare.
At the back of the casino, there’s another hallway, this one guarded by two men in crisp black suits.
Damian doesn’t break his stride.
The second they see him, they step aside, one reaching for the door behind them. No words exchanged. No hesitation. Just swift, seamless obedience.
The door swings open, and I step inside.
The atmosphere shifts immediately.
This isn’t like the open, vibrant casino floor.
The lighting is lower, richer, tinged with gold. The scent of leather and aged whiskey lingers in the air, and the quiet murmur of conversation hums beneath the occasional clink of glass against glass.
The room is lined with plush seating and dark wood paneling, but at the center of it all, a single poker table commands the space.
Four men sit around it, calculating, composed, powerful.
They glance up as Damian and I enter, their expressions ranging from mild interest to quiet recognition.
One of them, an older man with silver-streaked hair and a suit that costs more than most people’s cars, leans back in his chair. “Didn’t think we’d see you here tonight, LaCampanella.”
Damian’s smirk doesn’t falter. “I was feeling lucky.”
His gaze slides to me as he pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit.
The implication is clear.
He didn’t bring me here to watch.
He wants me to play.
I settle into the seat, resting my hands on the felt, feeling the weight of the moment settle in. This isn’t just a game.
This is a test.
And I’m about to show Damian LaCampanella exactly what I’m made of.
The weight of the moment settles over me like a velvet curtain.
This is no ordinary poker table. The men sitting here aren’t casual players throwing chips around for fun. They are men with power—real power. The kind that isn’t just measured in wealth, but in influence, in the quiet way they carry themselves like the world bends to their will.
And now, I’m sitting among them.
I keep my expression neutral as I rake my gaze over the table, studying them the same way I know they’re studying me.
Damian slides into the seat beside me, his movements effortless, controlled, like he owns this room as much as the cards in his hand.
“Buy-in is fifty,” the silver-haired man from earlier says, flicking a glance toward me. “That a problem?”
I barely hesitate before reaching for my chips, matching his bet with smooth, practiced ease. “Not at all.”
A flicker of amusement passes through his eyes, but he says nothing more.
The dealer nods and begins dealing the cards.
The room is quiet, but not empty. There’s a hum beneath the surface—the weight of money being exchanged, the energy of something unspoken yet undeniably charged.
I pick up my hand, keeping my face unreadable as I scan the cards. Good, but not unbeatable.
The first round is cautious—small bets, safe plays, each of us feeling out the table, reading tells, measuring control. But I don’t miss the way Damian stays silent beside me, not playing just yet, just watching.
Watching me.
The next round starts, and the bets climb higher. The men at the table aren’t just throwing money down—they’re making statements. Power is asserted in the boldness of a raise, in the confidence of a call.
I stay in, pushing more chips forward, matching them play for play, move for move.
A bead of tension tightens in my chest as I glance around the table. They’re waiting for me to slip.
To hesitate. To fold. I don’t.
When my turn comes, I raise instead.
One of the men across from me exhales a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he leans back in his seat. “You play like you’ve done this before.”
I lift a brow, my tone even. “Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
Damian chuckles under his breath.
A new round begins, the tension sharpening, but my focus doesn’t waver. I make a play—calculated, sharp, intentional. I’m not reckless. I’m not arrogant. But I don’t hold back either.
I can feel the moment the mood shifts.
The first real win. The way the chips slide toward me, the way the other players exchange brief looks before masking them with well-practiced ease.
I don’t react. I simply lift my glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey before setting it back down.
Damian, beside me, leans in just slightly. “Careful, princess,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only me to hear. “You’re starting to make them nervous.”