“Twenty million dead,” Rook repeated, his face grim in the dim warehouse light. “That bitch really wants you gone for good.”
I pushed myself up from the couch, ignoring the screaming pain in my side. The fresh bandages Doc had applied were already starting to stain red again, but I didn’t give a fuck. “Good. Let her waste money trying to find a ghost.”
Rook crossed his arms. “We need cash, man. Weapons. A real safehouse. Your old accounts are frozen. I got a few guns in my car, but that’s not enough to start a war.”
I nodded slowly, mind racing despite the exhaustion weighing on me. “Then we get money tonight. There’s a high-stakes poker game at the Sapphire Lounge. Neutral ground. Victor Lang runs it. Lots of rich pricks who think they’re untouchable.”
“You’re in no shape to play cards,” Rook warned.
“Watch me.”
Two hours later, after Doc reluctantly patched me up again and gave me strong painkillers, we slipped into the Sapphire Lounge through the back entrance Rook knew. The place reeked of expensive cigars, whiskey, and desperation. My body screamed with every step, but the hoodie and loose jacket hid most of the damage. I looked like shit, but dangerous shit.
The main poker room was on the second floor. Smoke hung thick in the air. Eight players sat around a green felt table under a low-hanging crystal chandelier. My eyes immediately locked onto her.
Bianca Moretti.
She sat at the head of the table like she owned the fucking place. Long, wavy dark hair cascading over one shoulder, blood-red dress that clung to her full breasts and narrow waist, with a slit so high it showed toned thigh. Gold earrings caught the light every time she moved. Her sharp, hazel eyes scanned the table like a predator sizing up prey.
She was playing, and winning, judging by the massive stack of chips in front of her.
I walked straight to the table, Rook staying back near the bar as backup. Victor Lang, the nightclub owner, spotted me and raised an eyebrow but didn’t say shit. Neutral ground meant neutral ground.
“Seat open?” I asked, voice rough.
One of the players, a fat politician type, laughed. “This is a ten thousand buy-in game, pal. You look like you just crawled out of a dumpster.”
Bianca’s gaze lifted and locked onto mine. Recognition flashed across her face, followed by a slow, dangerous smile.
“Damien Vale,” she purred, her voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade. “I heard you were dead. Yet here you are, bleeding through your clothes and still trying to play with the big boys. How intriguing.”
The table went quiet.
I pulled out a thick roll of cash, most of what Rook could scrape together, and tossed it onto the table. “Buy me in.”
Victor nodded to the dealer. A seat was cleared. I sat down directly across from Bianca. Our eyes stayed locked as the cards were dealt.
She leaned forward slightly, giving me a deliberate view of her cleavage. “Last I checked, you belonged to the Rossis. Does Isabella know her favorite dog is off the leash?”
“Careful,” I said, picking up my cards. Two kings. Not bad. “Dogs bite.”
She laughed ... low, throaty, genuinely amused. The other players shifted uncomfortably. They could feel the tension crackling between us.
The game started. I played aggressively, ignoring the burning pain in my side every time I moved. Bianca matched me bet for bet, her eyes never leaving my face. She was good. Really fucking good. But I was desperate.
Halfway through the second hand, she raised big. I called.
“Bold,” she murmured as the river card fell. “Or stupid.”
I laid down my full house. She stared at it for a second, then revealed her own, a straight flush.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Bianca smiled sweetly and raked in the pot. “Don’t worry, Damien. I’m sure Isabella will give you a nice funeral… if they ever find all the pieces.”
The painkillers were wearing off. Sweat beaded on my forehead. But I stayed in the game.
After another twenty minutes of brutal back-and-forth, I finally caught a break. A massive pot built between me and Bianca. The other players had folded, sensing blood in the water.
“All in,” I said, pushing my remaining chips forward.
Bianca studied me for a long moment, tapping her perfectly manicured nails on the table. Then she smiled and matched it.
“Call.”
I flipped my cards. Pocket aces. Strong.
She flipped hers slowly.
Queens.
For a second, hope flared. Then the flop, turn, and river came down.
She hit her queen on the river.
Bianca leaned back, victorious, while I sat there seething. I’d lost almost everything we brought.
“Bad luck,” she said softly, but her eyes were gleaming with something darker. “Or maybe you’re just not as good as you used to be.”
I stood up slowly, pain shooting through me. The room felt hotter. My vision tunneled slightly.
As I turned to leave, Bianca’s voice stopped me.
“Wait.”
She rose gracefully, walking around the table until she stood right in front of me. Close enough that I could smell her perfume , dark vanilla and danger. She reached up and adjusted the collar of my hoodie, her fingers brushing my neck.
“You look like hell, Vale,” she whispered so only I could hear. “But that fire in your eyes… it’s new. I like it. Meet me upstairs in the private lounge in ten minutes. We should talk about how a dead man plans to stay that way.”
Her breath brushed my ear. “And bring that rage with you. I have a feeling I can put it to much better use.”
She stepped back, gave me one last lingering look that sent heat straight to my cock despite everything, and walked away, hips swaying.
Rook appeared at my side. “You trust her?”
“Not even a little,” I said, watching her disappear up the stairs. “But right now, she’s our best shot at real resources.”
I started toward the stairs, jaw clenched.
Pain or no pain, I was walking straight into the lioness’s den.
As I reached the top of the stairs, two of Bianca’s men stepped out, blocking the entrance to the private lounge. One of them patted me down roughly, finding the pistol I’d taken from the clinic.
Bianca’s voice drifted out from inside the room.
“Let him in, boys. Mr. Vale and I have… unfinished business.”
The door opened.
Inside, Bianca sat on a leather couch, legs crossed, holding two glasses of whiskey. The look in her eyes was pure predator.
“Come sit, Damien,” she said, voice dripping with challenge. “Tell me exactly what Isabella did to you… and what you’re willing to do to make her suffer.”
I stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind me.
This conversation was about to get very dangerous.