Chapter 3 #3
Curious.
Like I’m a problem he hasn’t figured out how to solve yet.
Like he doesn’t want to solve it.
He wants to take it apart.
I reach the table and lower the tray onto the polished wood, handing out the drinks carefully, starting with the others.
Then, finally, I step toward him and hold his glass by the base, offering it with both hands.
He takes it without touching me. His fingers brush the crystal, not mine. But his eyes never leave me.
He brings the drink to his lips, sips once. Then he leans back in his chair slightly, eyes dark, mouth curving just enough to shift the entire gravity of the room.
“You chose well,” he says, voice low.
I incline my head. “You look like someone who appreciates fire.”
The silence that follows feels louder than the music.
The woman beside him stiffens just slightly. The men don’t speak.
And Rafael?
He studies me like he’s peeling skin from bone with his stare.
I step back, ready to leave.
But then?—
“Stay.”
His voice cuts through the air like a blade. Smooth. Final.
Like I never had a choice to begin with.
My breath catches, but I don’t let it show.
I don’t move when he tells me to stay. I don’t ask how long or why . I don’t even blink.
I just stay.
Because walking away now would be weakness. And weakness has no place at his table.
I stand beside the velvet booth, hands resting lightly behind my back, posture relaxed, eyes lowered—just enough to appear passive, not enough to miss anything.
The table keeps talking.
Low murmurs pass between Mikhail and the silent man to his left—topics switching from trade routes to someone’s messy divorce in Prague. The woman by Rafael—who hasn’t looked at me once—laughs at all the wrong times, her laugh brittle and too sharp.
And Rafael?
He doesn’t speak. He listens.
One hand resting lightly on the glass. His other tapping a slow, thoughtful rhythm against his thigh.
He watches the table like a predator watching its own reflection.
I can feel his eyes drift toward me sometimes—subtle, fleeting—but I feel them. Not on my legs or the curve of my waist. Not like the others would.
He watches me like I’m a game he hasn’t decided how to play yet.
Then, just as the conversation dips into silence, Rafael sets down his glass and leans slightly forward.
“Let’s play a hand.”
The table stills.
Mikhail raises an eyebrow. “Poker?”
Rafael gives a slow nod, that half-smile curling his mouth again.
“No stakes tonight,” he says. “Just reflex.”
The silent man shifts slightly, his first real sign of interest. The woman beside him perks up, though I catch the flicker of discomfort behind her eyes.
He’s shifting the room.
Testing them.
And me.
Then his gaze turns toward me—this time openly—and his next words come in a language that feels like ice across my skin.
“Ты умеешь играть в покер?” Do you know how to play poker?
My chest tightens, not from panic, but from the precision of the strike.
He’s not just speaking Russian. He’s telling me he sees me.
And now he’s watching to see if I’ll blink.
I meet his gaze, steady. My lips part, the words sliding out like they were born inside me.
“Да. Умею.” Yes. I do.
A breathless pause.
Rafael’s expression doesn’t shift, but I see it—the faintest flicker of approval in the depth of his eyes.
He leans back again, switching easily into English.
“Then stand behind me,” he says, voice smooth, like it was always meant to sound like a command. “Be my shadow.”
Not just a server now.
Not just an outsider.
He’s pulling me in.
He’s doing it on purpose.
And I let him.
Because the deeper I go, the closer I get to everything I need.
I nod once. “As you wish.”
His lips twitch—something like amusement.
The woman beside him stiffens. Her hand curls slightly on the tablecloth.
I don’t look at her.
I move to stand behind him instead—right where Nikolai would be, if he were here.
The position isn’t just physical. It’s symbolic. And Rafael knows it.
As I settle behind his chair, another server approaches with a silver tray, balancing a case of cards and a velvet pouch of chips. The table clears in silence, everyone helping with quick, practiced movements.
As the server unpacks the deck and begins arranging the chips, my eyes flick from face to face.
Every man at this table has killed someone.
Every person here plays a different game on the surface than the one underneath.
And now?
So do I.
Because tonight, I’m no longer standing on the edge.
I’ve already been dealt in.
The deck is shuffled. Cards slide with quiet precision across the velvet table, the faint sound of the dealer’s gloves against felt barely audible over the low hum of music in the background.
I stand behind Rafael’s right shoulder—just far enough not to crowd him, close enough to see his cards, his hand, his breathing.
The tension in the room shifts with each chip placed.
Eyes sharpen. Smiles fade. Masks settle.
The real game has begun.
I watch every movement.
The way Mikhail strokes the edge of his card before looking at it. The woman to Rafael’s left—her nail tapping twice on the table before folding. The silent man? He hasn’t blinked once.
Rafael’s hand moves slow, deliberate. Two fingers on his whiskey glass. The other hand lifts the edge of his cards, glances, then drops them without reaction.
A quiet click sounds in my ear.
“You good?”
Kellan.
His voice is low, cautious, coiled with tension.
I don’t answer.
“Iz… this is getting deeper, fast. He doesn’t let anyone stand there.”
I keep my face composed, eyes forward. Not now. Not here.
“Say the word if you want out—just tap your wrist.”
I reach up, slowly brushing back a loose strand of hair like I’m adjusting something. No signal.
I’m not leaving.
Not until I know who Rafael Romanov really is.
The first hand unfolds in a series of small bets. Casual. Safe.
The woman folds early. Mikhail raises once but retreats when the silent man reraises without speaking. Rafael calls and watches, face blank, fingers lazy on the chips.
A pair of jacks. Someone shows an ace-high bluff. The silent man wins the first.
Not Rafael.
But he isn’t phased. He never is.
Second hand—different rhythm. Mikhail plays hard, raising fast. The woman hesitates longer this time, glancing once too often at Rafael. He doesn’t meet her eye.
I watch his cards when he lifts them— King of Spades, Ten of Hearts.
Not exceptional. Not trash.
He calls.
By the river, the table narrows to three—Rafael, Mikhail, and the silent one again. Tension coils like smoke above the felt.
The turn flips.
Queen of Spades.
Rafael tips his head the slightest inch. I lean in, like I’m adjusting something by his chair, and lower my voice just enough for only him to hear.
“Он блефует.” He’s bluffing.
Rafael doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t blink. But I feel it—the pulse of reaction in the quiet inhale he takes.
His fingers tap the chips once.
Then he raises.
The room stills for a breath.
Mikhail watches him long and hard, then folds.
The silent one calls.
Cards flip.
Rafael’s hand wins.
Not by much. But enough.
Next hand—third of the night. Now the table is listening. No more polite bets. No more testing waters.
Rafael gets dealt Ace of Clubs and Queen of Diamonds. He doesn’t react. But I see the slight tension in his jaw. He likes the hand.
The flop comes: Queen of Spades. Eight of Hearts. Five of Clubs.
Rafael raises.
The woman folds.
Mikhail hesitates. Calls.
Silent man calls.
Turn flips: Ace of Diamonds.
Two pair.
I shift slightly, watching their expressions. Mikhail blinks too fast. The silent one—he shifts in his seat, thumb twitching once against the stack of chips.
They’re covering.
Rafael doesn’t wait. He raises again. Larger this time.
The pot swells.
Mikhail folds.
Silent man calls again.
River: Ten of Spades.
No help.
Rafael glances at his opponent’s stack, then slides his chips forward.
“All in.”
The table goes quiet. The air gets thicker.
I feel the heat of his calm from here, radiating like control personified.
The man doesn’t move.
Then he folds.
Rafael says nothing. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t gloat.
He just reaches forward and drags the mountain of chips toward him with one hand, slow and precise.
Victory wrapped in silence.
My breath exhales slowly behind him.
He leans back in his seat, lifting his glass again, and takes a single sip—still without looking up at me.
But the tension?
The connection?
It’s there.
Alive. Breathing.
And as the dealer begins shuffling again, Rafael finally speaks.
“Tell me,” he says, quiet enough only I would catch it, “do you always whisper in Russian, or only when you want something?”
His voice slides through the space between us like silk-wrapped steel.
I freeze for a half second behind him. Just a beat. Not enough to register to anyone else. But he’d notice.
He always notices.
My voice is low when I answer, careful, calculated.
“Only when the table’s too loud.”
He doesn’t look at me. But I feel his smirk more than I see it.
He downs the rest of his drink in one smooth tilt and sets the glass back on the table.
“Get me another.”
Not rude. Not demanding.
Just certain.
Like he’s not making a request.
Like I already belong to the rhythm of his world.
I nod once and turn, spine straight, heels clicking softly against the floor as I head back toward the bar.
I don’t look back.
But I feel him watching.
The noise returns as soon as I step away from the magnetic pull of his table. Cards shuffle again. Laughter erupts from a few seats over. A glass breaks somewhere in the distance. It’s like the world breathes again once I’m not near him.
But my pulse still isn’t steady.
“Iz,” Kellan’s voice comes through the earpiece again. He sounds tense. Clipped. “Do you need me to come in?”
I reach the bar and exhale, keeping my eyes on the shelves. I don’t answer.
“You’re too close. Too fast. I don’t like it.”