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He sounded so serious that I immediately believed him. Nevertheless, I was confused. Was he giving him too much work? Or was he implying something else?
"What are you saying, Dario? He said he'd been at it all his life," I replied, a little weary of the fact that he kept throwing me such morsels but then not expanding on them. For whatever reason.
"He still played with me and lost. Since then, his life is mine. I am his boss. He only listens to me. Casimiro is mine, all of him."
Irritated, I looked at him. You could not own people. That was called slavery, and I didn't think it was legal. Even if I remembered who we were talking about, it seemed very unlikely.
"What kind of game was that?"
"In his case, it was checkers."
"And his defeat was your victory."
"Right. He bet and lost. His bet was his life."
"And yours?"
"I think it was about a wish to be free."
"But if you're talking about his wager being his life shouldn't he be dead?"
Dario nodded. "At least that's what I want everyone to believe. But everyone who loses just leaves their old life behind and works for me from then on."
"Wow. And here I thought we were in eighteenth-century America."
My statement seemed to annoy him.
"All these men have their own apartments and no disadvantages. They work for me. I almost don't care about the rest."
"Almost?"
"Well, if they break the rules, then they have to make friends with death."
I nodded as if I understood the meaning behind it. Instead, I wondered what other strange actions Dario had going on. TheTyche, the games, the men who lost their lives to him. Then he liked to put himself in dangerous situations, especially when he could play poker for his life, and found it fun to screw a different woman every night.
Was I supposed to feel honored because he wanted to suspend this rule? I had made peace with it, so he would have to do the same.
"You're an interesting fellow, Dario. Sometimes I think you're just joking. Until I realize that you always speak the truth and rarely mince words."
"That's an interesting assessment. We haven't known each other for twenty-four hours."
"I'm sure you've already made a similar judgment about me. The crazy one who had the bomb strapped around her chest, is poor, and might as well be living in a homeless shelter because, in your view, the apartment isn't any better. Or something like that." I didn't mean any of that, but it had sounded the same coming from Dario's mouth– and like he couldn't imagine dealing with a low-income woman like me.
"It doesn't sound quite that bad in my head, though," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "My brother would tell you right now that I'm a bit of an idiot and like to act cheeky and brash, my sense of humor isn't quite appropriate and I love to exaggerate. But he's not here, so I guess that's my job." He paused for a moment to look at me with a sincere look. "I don't care where you live. But having you work for me or the mafia would mean that someone would be protecting you, and I wouldn't like that."
"So you like to contradict yourself, too," I noted, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
"It's all a part of my diverse personality."
"Sure."
"You can take my word for it."
"Mmm," I went on.
"You should know better. After all, you attract danger, too," he said, reaching across the table from the other side and pushing down the collar of my shirt. His thumb slid over the wound below my collarbone.
Before he could continue, I pushed his hand away and glared at him. "No repeats. Or do you think I want more cuts on my body from you?"
