Page 63 of His Savage Ruin
"The honor is mine," I reply, matching his formality.
Rafael whistles low. "Damn, Romano. You've been keeping her locked up when she could've been making our games interesting days ago."
"Shut up, Rafael." But there's no heat in Matteo's words.
He guides me toward the table, and I'm acutely aware of every man watching, judging whether I belong here or if I'm just another pretty ornament Matteo's showing off.
My gaze sweeps the room again, searching for the one person I actually want to see there but there’s no sign of her. "Where's Isabella?"
The question lands wrong, I just know it. I can feel it immediately in the way the conversation dies and Luca's shoulders go rigid.
"She's at the estate," Matteo says, pulling out a chair for me and gesturing for me to sit.
"Does she not like casinos?" I'm genuinely curious, because Isabella seems like the type who would enjoy the noise and energy of a place like this.
Matteo's hand tightens on the back of my chair. "She's safer at home."
"Jesus Christ, not this again." Luca sets his drink down harder than necessary.
"Luca—"
"No, seriously, how long are you going to keep her locked up? It's been years, Matteo."
"I'm not locking her up."
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, that's exactly what you're doing." Luca runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. The table goes quiet. Nobody's looking at either of them directly, but everyone's listening.
"We're not having this conversation here." Matteo's voice goes quiet.
Luca grabs his drink and moves away from the table. "Do what you want, you always do anyway."
The silence that follows is heavy and awkward. Matteo stands there for a second longer than he should, jaw tight, before he finally sits down across from me.
I sit down quickly, grateful for something to do with my hands besides fidgeting. The tension between the brothers is uncomfortable to watch, and I can't help feeling like I made it worse by asking about Isabella in the first place.
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I didn't mean?—"
"I know." Matteo's thumb brushes my collarbone once before he releases me, and the touch is intimate enough to make Enzo raise an eyebrow.
Rafael clears his throat loudly. "So, are we playing cards or are we going to sit here all night watching family drama?"
"Deal the cards, Romano," Dante says, already pushing chips toward the center of the table. "Let's see if our guest here can actually play or if she's just here for decoration."
I sit up straighter in my chair, grateful to focus on something besides the awkward family dynamics I just witnessed. "Deal the cards,Romano."
Something shifts in Matteo's eyes, something that has nothing to do with poker. "You sound confident,principessa. Hope you can back that up."
"Then deal and find out."
Matteo deals the cards, and they slide across the felt with a soft sound. My pulse picks up when I pick up my hand and see what I've been dealt, but not from fear. My father taught me to play cards when I was eight years old, sitting at our kitchen table with a worn deck. He said cards taught you two things: how to read people and how to hide what you're really thinking. By the time I was twelve, I could beat him half the time. By fifteen, I could beat him every time. It was one of the few good memories I have from before the Morettis came into my life and destroyed everything.
I check my cards and find a pair of eights, which isn't great but could be worse. When I look up, Matteo's watching my face instead of looking at his own hand, probably trying to read me the way my father taught me to read everyone else.
"Your bet," he says.
I push chips forward, a reasonable amount that doesn't give away whether I'm confident or bluffing. His jaw tightens just a fraction before he matches my bet without comment.
Rafael leans back in his chair, looking entertained. "Twenty says she takes this hand."
