Elena Vitiello POV:
Sofia clung to Luca's arm, her cheap red dress tailored so tight it looked like it would rip at the seams. The neckline plunged dangerously low, exposing a desperate amount of cleavage. She walked with her chin tilted up, her eyes wide and hungry, soaking in the stares of the dangerous men around her. She actually thought they were looking at her with admiration.
She scanned the room and immediately spotted me sitting under the massive crystal chandelier at the center table. A flash of pure, ugly jealousy twisted her features.
She dug her nails into Luca's sleeve and dragged him forward. Her stiletto heels wobbled on the hardwood floor, her steps uneven and entirely devoid of grace. She was pulling him straight toward my table, determined to parade her stolen prize right in front of my face.
Luca's brow furrowed. He glanced around the room, his street instincts telling him this was a terrible idea. This was the inner sanctum of the Chicago Outfit, not a cheap nightclub. But he looked down at Sofia, saw her pouting lips, and let her drag him forward anyway.
Matteo trailed behind them, shoving his shoulder into a drunk soldier who stepped too close to Sofia. He was playing the protective watchdog, offering the exact same service he used to offer me, but to a woman who didn't even know how to hold a gun.
The three of them stopped right next to my chair. Their bodies blocked the light from the chandelier, casting a dark, irritating shadow over my section of the green felt.
I did not look up. I kept my eyes on the table. I picked up my black chip and began tapping the edge against the felt. Tap. Tap. Tap. I controlled the rhythm of the silence.
Sofia shifted her weight, clearly annoyed that I wasn't looking at her. She cleared her throat and pitched her voice into a sickly sweet, exaggerated tone. "Elena! You're here too."
The surrounding crowd went dead silent. The only sound in the room was the rhythmic tapping of my chip. I treated her voice like background static. I raised my left hand and gave the dealer a subtle flick of my fingers.
The dealer jumped, quickly sliding the next card across the table.
Sofia's face flushed a blotchy red. She bit her lower lip hard, her eyes instantly welling up with tears. She turned her face toward Luca, looking up at him with the ultimate expression of a wounded victim.
Luca's jaw tightened. He reached over and patted Sofia's hand to comfort her. Then, he looked down at me, his voice dropping into a tone of harsh reprimand.
"Elena, Sofia is saying hello to you. Have you forgotten basic manners?"
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. The men standing around the table stared at Luca like he had just strapped a bomb to his chest. A subordinate soldier had just publicly scolded the heir to the Vitiello family. It was a death sentence.
I stopped tapping my chip. The silence in the room became absolute, heavy, and suffocating.
I slowly tilted my head back and looked up. I locked my eyes directly onto Luca's. My gaze was absolute zero.
Luca's body jerked. The primal, ingrained fear of my bloodline finally pierced through his arrogance. His shoulders hunched slightly, and his right foot twitched backward. He wanted to retreat.
But Sofia tightened her grip on his arm. Feeling her touch, his fragile male ego flared up. He forced himself to stand tall, puffing out his chest to shield her.
Emboldened by his posture, Sofia pointed a manicured finger at the pile of chips in the center of the table. "Wow, so much money," she cooed, her greed bleeding through her fake innocence. "Luca, let's play a hand. I want to try."
Luca's face instantly went rigid. He swallowed hard. The minimum buy-in for this table was ten thousand dollars. Thanks to my actions earlier today, his pockets were entirely empty.
Matteo leaned in close to Luca's ear, his voice a frantic whisper. "We don't have any cash on us."
Sofia didn't hear him. She giggled and reached her hand toward the inside pocket of Luca's jacket, trying to pull out his wallet.
I leaned back against the leather chair. I crossed my arms over my chest and let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound was dripping with pure mockery. I watched the clown show unfold with the detachment of someone watching insects in a jar.
The old Capo sitting across from me let out a disgusted snort. He picked up his thick Cuban cigar and crushed the cherry violently into the glass ashtray.
He leaned forward, his raspy voice cutting through the tension like a rusty saw. "Keep your bitch on a leash, boy. This isn't a slum circus."
Sofia gasped, her face turning chalk white. The word hit her like a physical slap. The fake tears vanished, replaced by genuine, panicked humiliation.
Luca's face turned a violent shade of purple. He snarled, his hand dropping rapidly toward his lower back to draw his weapon.
Before his fingers could even touch the grip of his gun, the sound of fabric shifting echoed around the table. A dozen heavily armed family guards instantly stepped forward, their hands resting firmly on the bulges beneath their suit jackets.
If Luca pulled that gun out by an inch, he would be turned into a bloody strainer before he could disengage the safety.
I sat up slowly. The tension in the room was pulled tight as a wire. I reached out and placed my fingers on the edges of my two face-down hole cards.
"Deal the cards," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the silent room. "I can't wait to see what kind of tricks the trash in my hand can pull off."
