Chapter 3 - The Price of a Seat
The private gaming salon of the Castellani estate was a cavern of dark mahogany, green baize, and cigar smoke thick enough to taste.
Unlike the main ballroom, where hundreds mingled beneath chandeliers, the salon held only twenty people. These were the arbiters of the city’s shadow government—the elder dons who owned the judges, the captains who ran the heroin and fentanyl corridors, and the money launderers who washed billions through offshore foundations.
At the center of the room sat a massive oval baccarat table.
At the head of the table sat Don Alberto Castellani himself. He was eighty-one years old, frail as parchment, with liver-spotted hands and eyes that had watched three generations of men bleed out on warehouse floors. Beside him stood his personal security, four men in heavy coats with automatic submachine guns concealed beneath the tailoring.
When Roman entered the room with Khloe at his side, Castellani’s rheumy eyes locked onto them.
The murmuring among the players died down.
Roman didn't let Khloe trail behind him like an assistant. He kept his hand firmly on the curve of her hip, guiding her toward the open chair directly opposite Julian Vance.
“Roman,” Castellani wheezed, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraped across pavement. “We thought you were skipping the cards tonight. You usually take your cut and leave the gambling to the degenerates.”
“I had an unexpected delay,” Roman replied smoothly, pulling out the heavy leather chair. He looked down at Khloe. “Sit.”
Khloe sat. The midnight-blue silk pooled around her legs, the high slit falling open just enough to reveal the pale curve of her thigh against the dark leather. She felt the eyes of five different men immediately drop to the bare skin, their expressions heavy with crude appraisal.
She reached down to smooth the fabric, her cheeks burning, but Roman’s hand came down on her shoulder, arresting the movement.
“Leave it,” he commanded quietly, his thumb pressing into her collarbone.
He didn't want her hiding. If these wolves were going to look, he wanted them to see who was standing guard over the kill.
Roman remained standing behind her chair, a dark, looming shadow, his hand resting possessively on the back of her neck.
Julian Vance sat across the green felt, a freshly poured tumbler of bourbon in front of him. A stack of black chips, each worth ten thousand dollars, towered beside his elbow.
“A hundred thousand buy-in, Roman,” Julian said, gesturing to the empty space before Khloe. “Are you playing, or are you just here to let your little bookkeeper admire the scenery?”
“I don't play cards, Julian,” Roman said coldly. “Games of chance are for men who don't know how to control the outcome.”
“Then let the lady play,” an older voice rasped from the corner.
It was Sal Moretti, a South Side capo with silver hair and a crooked nose that had been broken five times. He was leaning back in his chair, running a gold lighter between his knuckles, staring directly into Khloe’s eyes with open lust.
“A face like that shouldn't be wasted on filing paperwork,” Moretti continued, his thick lips curling into a grin. “Stake her, Caster. Let’s see if she has a touch for the cards. Or maybe she’s better at other games.”
Khloe’s stomach plummeted. She had balanced multimillion-dollar ledgers, tracked illicit shipments of titanium through the Black Sea, and calculated exchange-rate depreciations down to the eighth decimal point. But she had never touched a baccarat card in her life.
She looked up at Roman, her eyes pleading. Get me out of here.
Roman looked down at her. His ocean-blue eyes were unreadable, but a terrifying, brilliant darkness had ignited behind them.
He reached inside his tuxedo jacket, pulled out a heavy black leather checkbook, and dropped it onto the green felt in front of Khloe.
“Five hundred thousand,” Roman said, his voice ringing through the quiet room like a church bell. “The lady plays on my credit.”
A collective intake of breath rippled around the table.
Khloe whipped her head around, staring at him in utter horror. “Mr. Caster, no. I don't know how—”
“You know math, Khloe,” Roman interrupted, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his breath hot and intoxicating against her skin. “Baccarat is just basic probability with a French name. You calculate odds for my shipping lines in your sleep. Beat these pathetic old bastards, or I take it out of your salary.”
The threat was absurd. Half a million dollars would take her four lifetimes to repay. But the dark, fierce confidence in his eyes caught her off guard. He wasn't mocking her now. He was weaponizing her.
The dealer, a stone-faced professional from Monaco, slid two stacks of high-denomination plaques across the table, placing them neatly in front of Khloe’s trembling hands.
“Player or Banker, Miss?” the dealer asked.
Khloe looked across the table. Julian Vance was staring at her with an arrogant, condescending smirk, tossing a hundred-thousand-dollar chip onto the Banker circle.
“Banker,” Julian said smoothly. “The house always wins, darling. Remember that.”
Khloe took a slow, deep breath. The terror in her chest didn't vanish, but beneath the fear, the cold, analytical machine that had survived two years in Roman Caster’s office kicked into gear. She remembered the manifests. She remembered the cards left in the shoe, the standard six-deck distribution, the 1.06 percent house edge on the Banker bet versus the 1.24 percent on the Player.
She reached out with a steady hand and pushed three hundred thousand dollars' worth of plaques onto the Player.
Julian chuckled. “Bold. Reckless, but bold.”
The dealer laid down the cards with lightning speed.
Two cards to Julian. Two cards to Khloe.
“Banker shows a seven,” the dealer announced, flipping Julian’s cards. A three of spades and a four of hearts. A natural seven. A formidable hand in baccarat.
Julian leaned back, spreading his arms. “Like I said. The house always wins.”
Roman’s hand tightened on Khloe’s shoulder. His fingers dug in, not with anger, but with an electric, coiled tension.
Khloe didn't blink. She reached out, took the corners of her two face-down cards, and peeled them back.
An eight of diamonds. An ace of spades.
A natural nine.
“Player shows nine,” the dealer stated without emotion, sweeping Julian’s chips toward Khloe’s side of the table. “Player wins.”
The room went dead silent.
Julian’s smirk vanished entirely, his face draining of color.
A low, gravelly chuckle escaped Roman’s throat—a sound Khloe had never heard in the two years she had worked for him. It was dark, rich, and utterly triumphant.
“What was that about the house always winning, Julian?” Roman murmured, leaning down so his chest pressed against Khloe’s bare back, his hand sliding from her shoulder down to rest flat over her stomach, holding her against him.
May you like
Khloe felt the heat of him radiating through the silk. For the first time all evening, the suffocating weight of the room didn't feel like a death sentence.
It felt like war. And Roman had just made her his general.
