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I stare at him for a long moment, my head reeling. Mirabella, he said, my full name like a caress in his voice. And his cryptic words.There are many things I want from you, Mirabella, but none of them are owed.What does he mean by that?
He is a Sidorov,a voice inside me cautions.He is your father’s mortal enemy. If Aldo Caruso finds out you’re fraternizing with him, he will kill you.
I slide off the barstool. “Let’s.”
CHAPTER2
MIRA
Twenty minutes later, all eight players have shown up. I contemplate the group around the table, an incredible concentration of wealth and power. Antonio Moretti controls the Venice Mafia. Dante Colonna is his second-in-command. Ciro Del Barba runs Milan. Max Guerra is Spanish, from Valencia, and is making a play for Southern Italy. Gabriel d’Este is obscenely wealthy and has his hands in dozens of illegal ventures. Lola García Torres is also from Spain and the only other woman here.
And, of course, there’s Andrei, sitting directly across from me.
Helen deals the first round. I glance at my cards. A pair of eights, nothing to write home about. But my hand doesn’t appear to be as bad as some of the others. “Really?” Antonio says, looking at his cards in disgust before setting them down. “I’m out.”
“Poor Antonio,” Ciro says mockingly as he tosses two chips into the pot. “How much did that Dali you bought at auction last month set you back? Ten, twelve million euros? I didn’t think you were in the market for Surrealists.”
Dante goes next and raises, earning a glare from Lola. Andrei raises as well, looking as inscrutable as ever as he throws eight chips into the pot.
“I thought it was only car auctions you followed, Ciro,” Gabriel says, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Dante, congratulations on the Ferrari.” He studies his cards before shaking his head. “I’m out.”
Max folds as well, as does Lola. I move sixteen chips forward. Each chip is ten thousand euros. It’s an insignificant amount of money to everyone at the table.Everyone except me.The others are gambling for entertainment, but I’m playing for something much more worthwhile. My freedom. Aldo Caruso grows more erratic with each passing day. Twenty million euros, and I can disappear and take my sister with me.
Ciro whistles under his breath. “She’s bluffing,” Antonio says, tilting his head to the side and surveying me with narrowed eyes. “She doesn’t have a damn thing.”
“Haven’t you folded?” I counter. “I didn’t know you were so protective of Ciro’s money, Antonio.”
Ciro stares at his cards and then at me. “I didn’t expect to see you here today, Mira.”
“Because it’s Valentine’s Day?”
He gives me a pleasant smile. “Among other things.”
“Cut it out,” Andrei bites out. “Stop stalling. In or out?”
“Out.” The man drops his cards. “I can never tell whether Mira is bluffing or not.”
Dante folds as well. It’s just Andrei and me in the game. I take a sip of my Old Fashioned as I wait for him to bet. He levels a look at me, and then his lips quirk. “I can’t either,” he says. “But I’m going to roll the dice.” He pushes his entire stack of chips forward. There’s a million euros in there—no, two. Maybe even three. “Your move.”
Damn him. I can’t take the risk—I have no idea what kind of hand he’s holding. Andrei could lose two or three million euros on a whim—I cannot. Keeping the frustration off my face, I put my cards face down on the table. “I fold.”
The game breaks up three hours later. I haven’t done too badly—I’m a million euros richer than I was when I came in, a million euros closer to my goal. But at the rate I’m going, it’s going to take me five years to amass enough money for my escape, and I don’t have five years. My father is contemplating marrying me off to Dominic Palermo, a man with a terrible reputation for violence. Dominic has put every one of his girlfriends in the hospital. Aldo Caruso would prefer that my husband not beat me, but the Palermos are wealthy, and we need the money. If my marriage restores the family fortune, then it won’t matter how much of a monster Dominic is.
I’m running out of time.
I get to my feet, tip Helen, and prepare to say my goodbyes. The group has broken up into smaller clumps. Dante, Lola, and Max are talking in rapid-fire Spanish, laughing about something. Andrei is having a low-voiced conversation with Ciro. Gabriel is reading something on his phone.
Antonio Moretti comes up to me. “A warning,” he says quietly. “Your father is playing a dangerous game. Stop him before it’s too late.”
A frisson of alarm goes down my spine. Antonio is not prone to dramatic pronouncements. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve already said too much.” He kisses my cheek, and I feel Andrei’s eyes on us from across the room. “You think you are powerless, Mira, but you are not. Nobody in this room is. Don’t let the world take it away from you.”
“Enough.” Andrei Sidorov is suddenly at my side, his hand on the small of my back, his face a mask of rage. “If you’re going to tell her, Moretti, then do it. Otherwise, shut up.”
Antonio looks at Andrei, then at me, then at Andrei again. “Of course,” he says, a small smile touching his lips. “I should have known.” He inclines his head at me. “See you later, Mira.”
“What was he talking about?”
