Page 67 of Made for Saints

The first hand was uneventful, a warm-up round that ended with one of Rocco’s lackeys folding under pressure. The second hand was more interesting, with Rafe bluffing his way to a small pot and earning a round of groans from the table.

By the third hand, the banter was in full swing.

“So, Dante,” Rocco said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp as he studied me over the rim of his glass. “How’s business these days? Still breaking kneecaps and stealing watches?”

The table erupted in laughter, and I felt a flicker of amusement despite myself. “Business is booming,” I said, my voice even. “But don’t worry, Roc. Your kneecaps are safe. For now.”

“Good to know,” he said, his grin widening. “I’d hate to have to start walking with a limp. It’d ruin my whole aesthetic.”

“Your aesthetic is already ruined,” Rafe muttered, earning another round of laughter. He leaned forward, flicking ash from his cigarette into the ashtray. “Speaking of aesthetics, Roc, what the hell is that thing on the wall? Is that supposed to be art, or did you let a toddler loose with a paintbrush?”

Rocco followed his gaze to the abstract painting hanging above the fireplace, his expression darkening. “That’s a Pollock, you uncultured asshole.”

Rafe snorted, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Looks like someone spilled a can of paint and called it a day.”

“Don’t listen to him,” I said, smirking as I tossed a chip into the pot. “Rafe thinks Michelangelo is a brand of frozen pizza.”

The table roared with laughter, and Rafe flipped me off without missing a beat. “Fuck you, Dante.”

“Love you too, brother,” I said, my smirk widening.

The game continued, the stakes climbing higher with each hand. The tension at the table was palpable, but it was the kind of tension I thrived on. Rocco was bluffing—his grin was too wide, his fingers too still. The guy to my left was nervous, his leg bouncing under the table. And Rafe? Well, Rafe was justbeing Rafe—reckless, unpredictable, and entirely too confident for his own good.

By the time we reached the fifth hand, the pot was substantial, and the room had grown quieter. The only sounds were the shuffle of chips, the rustle of cards, and the occasional clink of a glass. Rocco leaned back in his chair, his grin firmly in place as he studied the table.

“You know,” he said, his tone light but his eyes calculating, “it’s always a pleasure having you boys here. Keeps things...interesting.”

“Interesting?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call losing?”

Rocco’s grin faltered, just for a moment, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he met my gaze. “Careful, Dante. You’re in my house, remember?”

“And?” I said, my voice calm but edged with steel. “You think that means something to me?”

The tension at the table spiked, the air crackling like a live wire. Rocco’s grin returned, but it was colder now, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back in his chair.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Dante,” he said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “But I guess that’s what makes you so much fun to play with.”

“Fun for me, maybe,” I shot back, tossing another chip into the pot. “For you? Not so much.”

Rafe chuckled, his cigar dangling from his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “He’s not wrong, Roc. You’ve been bleeding chips all night. Might want to save some for the Christmas card fund.”

“Fuck your Christmas cards,” Rocco snapped, though there was no real heat behind his words. “I’m just warming up.”

“Warming up?” Rafe echoed, smirking as he flicked ash into the tray. “Roc, you’ve been ‘warming up’ since I got here. At this rate, you’ll be broke before the whiskey runs out.”

“Keep talking, Rafe,” Rocco said, his grin sharpening. “We’ll see who’s broke by the end of the night.”

“Not me,” Rafe said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “I’ve got a system.”

“A system?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you’re calling blind luck these days?”

Rafe shrugged, his smirk widening. “Call it what you want, brother. All I know is, I’ve got more chips than you.”

“For now,” I said, my tone light but deliberate. “But we both know you’ll blow it all on one stupid hand.”

“Maybe,” Rafe admitted, taking a sip of his whiskey. “But at least I’ll have fun doing it.”

The table roared with laughter again, and even Rocco cracked a smile, the tension easing just slightly. But the undercurrent of competition remained, a steady pulse that kept us all on edge.

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