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“I think you might not wish to be so quick to assume the fortitude of men you’re playing poker with, for these kinds of stakes, before you know how they play, Mr. Carveli.”
That gets a round of hoots and chuckles from the crowd. Massimo smiles mirthlessly at me with malice in his eyes.
“So be it, Alistair,” he growls quietly.
The dealer begins to distribute the cards. I feel another tap on my arm as Carmine Barone leans close while pulling a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.
“Your reputation at the poker table precedes you, counselor,” he mutters under his breath. “You do you. I can run interference.”
I turn to arch a quizzical brow at him, but he’s already pointedly looking away.
Interesting. He’s not the ally I would have expected, but I’m not going to say no to any help right now.
The dealer reminds us that this is Texas Hold ‘Em as he reveals the flop. My eyes are squarely on Eloise.
Hers are squarely on mine.
We both know the stakes right now.
Slowly, the game unfolds. Given that this is a single hand game, Massimo and the dealer have announced there are no limits on raises. And so slowly, the pot goes up. And up. And up.
I’m playing my pocket pair of sevens as best I can. The flop doesn’t help me, nor does the turn. But when the dealer flips the river, my pulse skips.
Suddenly, I’ve got triple sevens.
I’m distracted, obviously, by Eloise. I keep looking at her, even if I know how dangerous a move that is right now. But I can’t help myself. She looks horrified with every raised bet, and ill every time one of the other men at the table turns to eye her up, or makes a laughing comment about taking what belongs to Massimo.
It takes everything I have not to explode.
Slowly, players begin to drop out. The guy to my right—the underboss from the Abato family—folds first. Next, it’s not lost on me how Carmine purposely drives Sammy “The Hatchet” DiFresno past his comfort zone, constantly egging him on until Sammy too taps out. He shoots Carmine a dark, vicious glare before he abruptly stands from the table and storms over to the bar.
The guy all in black is next to fold. Frankie Paciano keeps a strong face going, and he goes way past my usual comfort zone. But this time, there is no comfort zone.
This is win or lose everything.
Eventually he folds, too. Then, it’s just Massimo, Carmine, and me. And Massimo is looking a little more nervous than when the hand started.
The dealer announces a quick break, and we all get up to grab drinks or hit the bathroom. I resist the urge to walk over to Eloise and instead make my way to where Massimo is slugging back a whiskey at the bar.
“Mr. Carveli,” I mutter quietly, “I think perhaps this has gone on long enough, don’t you?”
He turns to sneer at me. “I thought you had more balls than that, Mr. Black.”
I smile as politely as I can. “Massimo, this is your wife we’re talking about. I think the game is over.”
“It’s over when I fucking say it’s over,” he snarls. He turns and claps his hands. “Back to the table! We’re finishing this.”
When we sit again, the raises continue for two more rounds. Five minutes later, we hit a breaking point. Massimo gulps down his drink, slams his glass angrily on the table, and then clears his throat.
“We’re done.”
Thank God.
“Show ’em.”
What the fuck. He’s not ending the game? He’s saying he actually wants us to show our cards to find out who wins?
“Massimo—”
