Page 68 of Made for Saints

By the seventh hand, the pot was massive, and the room had grown quiet again. Rocco was leaning forward, his elbows on the table and his eyes fixed on the cards in his hand. Rafe was lounging in his chair, his expression unreadable as he toyed with his chips. And me? I was watching them both, my mind calculating every possible outcome.

Rocco glanced at me, his grin returning as he pushed a stack of chips into the pot. “Feeling lucky, Dante?”

“Always,” I said, matching his bet without hesitation. “The question is, are you?”

Rocco’s grin widened, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—a tell he probably didn’t even realize he had. I leaned back in my chair, my gaze steady as I studied him.

“You’re bluffing,” I said, my tone casual but deliberate.

Rocco’s grin faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. “Am I?”

“You are,” I said, tossing another chip into the pot. “And not very well, I might add.”

The men around the table chuckled, and Rocco’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the edge of his cards.

The game continued, the stakes climbing higher with each hand. The tension at the table was thick, almost crackling in the air, but it was the kind of pressure I thrived on. Every glance, every gesture, every hesitant bet was a tell, and I read them all like an open book.

The final hand was a goddamn spectacle. Chips piled high in the center of the table like a glittering mountain, the kind of pot that could make even the most seasoned players sweat. The room had gone quiet, the usual banter and laughter replaced by a heavy, expectant silence. Even the background noise of the estate—the faint hum of conversation, the clink of glasses—seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of cards being shuffled and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor.

Rocco’s grin was back, but it was tight, forced. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled as he studied the cards in his hand. His usual bravado was still there, but I could see the cracks forming. He was trying too hard to look confident, too hard to sell the idea that he had the winning hand. It was almost sad. Almost.

Rafe, on the other hand, was the picture of reckless indifference. He lounged in his chair, his whiskey glass half-empty, His cards were fanned out lazily in one hand, and he was using the other to idly stack and restack his chips, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But I knew better. Rafe was a wildcard, unpredictable and dangerous, and he thrived in moments like this. He wasn’t just playing the game—he was playing the room.

And then there was me. Calm. Collected. Unreadable. I picked up my cards with deliberate precision, my face a mask of indifference as I studied them. Two kings stared back at me, their cold, regal faces promising victory if I played this right. But poker wasn’t just about the cards—it was about reading the room, exploiting weaknesses, and knowing exactly when to strike.

“Alright, boys,” Rocco said, his voice breaking the silence. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his arms wide like abenevolent king addressing his court. “This is it. Last hand of the night. Winner takes all.”

“Winner takes all?” Rafe repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What is this, a goddamn Western? Should we start calling you Sheriff Rocco?”

“Sheriff?” I interjected, smirking. “More like the town drunk.”

The table erupted in laughter, and Rocco’s grin faltered for a split second before he recovered. “Laugh it up, assholes,” he said, tossing a chip into the pot. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I clean you out.”

“Bold words for a man who’s been bleeding chips all night,” I said, matching his bet without hesitation. “You sure you don’t want to fold now and save yourself the embarrassment?”

“Not a chance,” Rocco shot back, his grin sharpening. “I’ve got the cards, Dante. You’ll see.”

“Oh, we’ll see,” I said, my tone calm but edged with challenge. “But I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you.”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed his own chips into the pot. “You two are like an old married couple. It’s honestly kind of adorable.”

“Shut up, Rafe,” Rocco and I said in unison.

The dealer began the final round, flipping the community cards one by one with agonizing slowness. The tension in the room was palpable, every eye fixed on the table as the cards revealed themselves. A queen. A ten. A seven. Nothing that helped Rocco, judging by the way his grin tightened. Rafe, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was never a good sign.

The fourth card was a king, and I felt a flicker of satisfaction as I glanced at my hand. Three of a kind. Strong, but not unbeatable. I kept my expression neutral, my gaze steady as I tossed another chip into the pot.

Rocco tilted his head, his fingers tapping a deliberate rhythm on the edge of the table. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”

I shrugged, meeting his gaze with an easy smile. “Some ofus prefer to let our cards do the talking.”

Rocco hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking to the pot, then to his cards, and finally to me. He was trying to read me, trying to figure out if I was bluffing. But I gave him nothing. Just a steady, unflinching stare that dared him to make a move.

“Call,” he said finally, pushing his chips into the pot.

Rafe took his sweet time, because of course he did. The bastard lived for the drama.

“Well,” he drawled, finally looking up from his cards. His smirk widened as he glanced between Rocco and me. “It’s not every day I get to see you two puffing your chests at each other like a couple of roosters in a barnyard. Honestly, it’s kind of entertaining.”

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