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Immediately, I recognize the layout to be this Visconti Blackjack they all play here, and a conditioned zap of adrenaline crackles through my core. Past life, Penelope. Past life.
My presentlife involves serving those at the table instead of sitting around it. I set a glass next to Angelo. His gaze slides to the watch on my wrist then up to me, something unreadable flickering in its depths. My heart lurches but he doesn’t say anything.
I move to Raphael’s side of the table. He doesn’t acknowledge me, but still, my arm crackles as it brushes against the sleeve of his suit. Then, without a break in his stoic expression, his hand glides up the back of my thigh and comes to the hem of my skirt.
He pulls downward.
I stifle a gasp. Angelo snaps out a card from the shoe and tosses it on the pile.
Queen of Hearts.
Raphael folds.
He huffs out a breath and settles back into his armchair.
Shaky from the unexpected skirt grab, I set down the Irish man’s drink a little too hard. He winces then turns to me with wild eyes. Something warm floods through them, and he shifts in his seat to get closer.
“Hit or stand, Princess?”
My jaw ticks at the nickname, but I can’t stop my eyes from gliding to the table anyway. Only a quick sweep at the dealt cards tells me he should stand—there are too many low-value cards already played—but I clamp my mouth shut and plaster on a smile. “How would I know? I’m just a silly little Princess.”
His laugh melts into a thick silence. Even with unfocused eyes and a reckless sway to his movements, there’s something in his gaze that makes unease trickle down my spine like syrup. I move to get away from him, but he’s quicker than he looks. His hand shoots out and grips my wrist.
Three pairs of eyes, including my own, glare down at it. In my peripheral vision, Raphael leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Tips. Think of the tips. “Penny.”
Again, another laugh. One too loud for a three-person meeting. “That’s a very lucky name. What’s that expression again? Find a Penny, pick it up, all day long you’ll have good luck? Although, red-heads aren’t very lucky on boats, are they?”
“Uh-huh,” I say dryly, silently recoiling at the old adage that haunted my childhood. I tear my arm away, but his hand reaches for my necklace. He strokes the four-leaf clover pendant, expression curious.
“Kelly,” Rafe says, too calm for comfort.
“You’ve got the luck of the Irish,” Kelly murmurs, ignoring the way Raphael delivers his name in a silk-clad warning. “You got any Irish in you, sweetheart?”
“Nope.”
“Would you like to have Irish in you?”
Raphael’s on his feet, but I’m quicker, leaning in and hissing in Kelly’s face. “If you don’t remove your hand from me right now, I’ll bite it.”
He stares at me for long, awkward seconds. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks. Raphael’s gaze scalds my cheek. Angelo clears his throat.
Eventually, with a shit-eating smile creeping onto his thin lips, he releases me.
But not without a parting word. One I know is meant for my ears only.
“I knew it was you.”
I blink, and then the dread hits. It’s lazy, seeping into my veins hot and sticky, deadening my limbs. It pools in my chest and slows my heart rate; fills my lungs.
Knew it was you.
Numb, I stand to my full height and glance at Raphael. He’s poised but his eyes are on me, simmering with unadulterated rage. Still reclining in his armchair, Angelo says something in clipped Italian, and with a slow roll of his head, Raphael begrudgingly sinks back to his seat.
I wade toward the bar, swimming through words filled with arrogance and amusement. “I was kidding,” I hear behind me. “But how about we up these stakes a little…”
