15. Luck Be a Lady

Chapter 15

Luck Be a Lady

My grandfather was a die-hard fan of James Bond. I've seen every single movie in that franchise dozens of times. I know Golden Eye scene for scene. I know Never Say Never Again like the back of my hand. I should have been prepared for what I was about to witness. Yet, stepping into Le Casino Monte Carlo, a white fur stole wrapped around my shoulders, I nearly collapse from the striking glamour and prestige of such an iconic establishment.

Gripping my ruby red clutch, I follow Milo through the grandiose rooms, my footsteps silent against the warm-toned carpet. Luxurious chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceilings, intricate designs carved into the cream archways, impressionist paintings thoughtfully tucked in the corners of the golden-hued salle .

I really wish Julia and Paolo could've come with us tonight, but residents of Monaco are forbidden from stepping foot into the gaming rooms of the casino: A royal decree issued by Princess Caroline on the basis of morality.

Apparently, the monarchy has no qualms with foreigners gambling away their life savings just not their own citizens.

"Do you have any experience playing poker, Kiara?" Milo asks, maneuvering through the roulette and craps tables to the private gaming rooms.

Marchello hovers by Milo's side, his gaze guarded, watchful. The other men in black surround us in a protective semi-circle. Despite their best efforts to blend in by wearing designer tuxedos, they're not very inconspicuous.

"Does watching poker tournaments on TV count?" I ask as a sharply dressed young man greets us in front of a wooden door that leads to our ominous destination.

"For most people that would be insufficient experience." Milo hands the attendant several hundred Euros. "Yet for you, Kiara, that seems plentiful."

The young man pockets the generous tip and smiles with gratitude, "Your guests have already arrived, Mr. Di Vaio." He ushers us inside.

A single poker table sits in the middle of the otherwise sparsely decorated room. Three out of the six chairs surrounding the game are occupied by men ranging in age but not in status.

"Why are there three empty chairs?" I ask. "I thought only you and Marchello were playing?"

Milo grins, his softened yet scheming eyes studying me as he casually says, "Me, Marchello, and you ."

"Milo," Marchello protests with a frown as we approach the velveted green table, thick brown leather cushioning the perimeter. "I don't think that's a good idea. What if she loses? This is a high stakes game; she knows nothing."

Milo glares at his underboss. "If I wanted your opinion, Marchello, I would have asked." He glances at me, tilting his head. "You will play, yes? "

I purse my lips, faded memories of my father playing poker with his friends whirling through my mind as I try to remember the rules. Pairs, three of a kind, four of a kind, full house, flush, straight, royal flush. Aces are high.

Poker face.

How hard can it be?

"Are you sure?" I ask, hesitant knowing the buy-in must be in the thousands. Even though I'll be playing with Milo's money, I don't want to be careless and lose it all. I don't need another thing hanging over my head, waiting to crush me when the time is right. "Marchello is right. I've—I've never played before. I don't think I should?—"

Milo smirks. "Poker is all about emotions, Kiara. You seem to be very good at reading people." He nods at the three men who are sipping on martinis and scotch, getting impatient as we linger several feet away. "I think you can take them, no?"

"Who are they? Friends or foes?"

Milo expels a quiet chuckle, waving two fingers at the dealer. "I guess we will soon find out." We approach the table, Milo's posture tall, confident as he pulls out a chair. "Good evening my friends, I hope you were not waiting long."

The middle-aged bald man with a martini in his hand casts us a small smile as Milo and Marchello sit down.

"We arrived mere minutes ago," he says in a French accent. "We were thrilled to receive your invitation. Paris is swarming with tourists right now, a trip is just what we needed."

"Yes, my mother was just complaining about the same thing," Milo says, looking up at me. "Kiara, please sit down."

Tentatively, I shrug the stole off my shoulders, the nerves from the impending game warming my body as I take a seat beside Milo. Across the table, the three Frenchmen leer at me like they've never seen a woman before. These must be his associates from France.

A part of me is disappointed, I would have rather gone to Paris to determine their loyalty. Maybe he has more friends we could visit in the city of love.

"Henri," Milo addresses his associate, the other two men on Henri's side silent as they listen intently. "This is Kiara, she will be joining our game. I hope you don't mind."

Henri's sunken green eyes widen with intrigue as he gives a once-over. "Did you bring her to distract us, Milo?" He lets out a rough chuckle. "It's a good strategy in theory but perhaps you underestimate our skills."

"Or maybe he overestimates her beauty," the younger man to his right adds, his thin lips twisting into a grin as his blue eyes glide across my shimmering floor-length gown. "All that glitters is not always gold."

Milo's lips curl up into a controlled and cool smile. "Even the Bard himself would find that statement to be sheer folly."

He knows his literature. And his beauty. Smart man.

Poker chips are placed in front of each player and the dealer begins shuffling. Servers offer Marchello, Milo, and myself a drink and I glance over to Milo, unable to hide my grin as I take a martini off the tray.

"The who?" the young man asks, his accent throwing me off. Whereas Henri has a definite Parisian flair to his tone, this man sounds like a foreigner.

"Andre," Henri snaps, his deep voice issuing a warning as he meets Milo's cold gaze. "He is new, I apologize."

Andre grimaces, taking a peek at the cards placed in front of him. His left eyebrow rises just a millimeter, the corner of his lip twitching. Not a good hand, I'd guess .

"Think nothing of it." Milo glides his two cards between his fingers, his expression neutral as he scans his hand. Hmm . I can't get a read. He must be a seasoned player.

Before looking at my own cards, I carefully and discreetly examine the reactions from the five men sitting around me. None of them possess overtly strong reactions, other than Andre; his frustration is almost laughable.

Sucking in a sharp breath, I take a gander at my own hand. Jack and a 3. Both Spades. Could be worse. I could have whatever Andre's cards are.

With an ante of ten thousand euros, my competitive side emerges as we begin playing. Milo and Henri chat as if there are not thousands of euros in the pot. Although I suppose for them, this is the equivalent of playing penny slots.

The flop is kind to me, allowing for a pair of Jacks, the other two cards an Ace of clubs, and Queen of spades.

"Kiara?" Call or fold?" Milo asks, giving me a sly smile.

"Call." I toss red chips into the middle of the table. "Maybe I'm a gambler as well."

Andre takes a minute to mull over whether he should call or fold which surprises me. He clearly doesn't have a good hand.

Why risk it?

"Call," he states in a self-assured tone. I let out a small chuckle, covering my mouth. Five sets of eyes dart toward me, all of them amused except for Andre's. "Did I miss something funny?"

I clear my throat, taking a sip of my vodka martini. "No, not at all. I just remembered a joke, that's all."

The game continues. The turn is a 7 of spades. Oh, one more spade, and I have a flush. I keep my expression muted .

"I enjoy a good joke," Andre says, leaning his forearms on the playing table. "Care to share, Kiara ?"

"Um..." I hum as Henri's more silent associate raises. "It's more of an inside joke. You had to have been there."

"Of course." Andre reclines back into his seat, studying me intently before his gaze darts to Milo. "You must have many inside jokes. I hear Santi Oscuri is full of comedians."

Wow. He must be super new. I'm fairly certain that name is to remain unspoken.

"Yes," Milo replies in a flat tone, calling the raise as I do the same thing. Fuck it at this point; go big or go home. "But we are nowhere near as comical as you Frenchmen."

Henri lets out a deep laugh, cutting the building tension. "You are not wrong, my friend. Laughter feeds the soul and we Parisians, we are full of soul."

"Are you full of soul as well, Andre?" I ask casually, using this as an in. "How long have you lived in Paris?"

Milo keeps his expression neutral, his eyebrows perking up just a smidgen but not enough to insinuate he's skeptical of our lanky friend.

"I was born in Germany, Kiara," he replies in a smooth tone. "But I grew up in Paris, so yes, I would say my soul is quite full."

" Where in Germany were you born ?" I ask in his native tongue, cocking my head to the side, instantly regretting the decision to show my cards.

Shit. They're not supposed to know. Fuck fuck fuck.

Andre's eyes light up as Milo shifts in his seat, his displeasure emanating off his stiff body. I avoid my employer's gaze. He's going to be pissed. I need to lie the shit out of this one.

"You can speak German? I'm impressed." A smile creeps up on Andre's hollow face. "Do you have German heritage? "

I was expecting Andre to be dubious about my knowledge of his language, but he looks genuinely impressed, relaxed almost. I'll just have to remember not to start spewing out French words then maybe I'll survive this evening unscathed.

I don't miss a beat, keeping my tone level, calm. "My great grandmother was born in Germany but fled to the UK after the Second World War. I know a few phrases here and there, not too much though."

"Where in Germany was your great grandmother born?" Andre asks, pursing his lips, mirroring my original question.

"Berlin."

"Beautiful city, is it not?" Andre rubs his chin. "That's where my family originates from as well."

"Oh."

Henri lets out an exhausted sigh as he glances at the dealer who's been ready to flip the river for some time. "You're German, she's German, fantastic. Can we get back to the game now?" He taps his fingers against his cards. "I am one card away from bankrupting Milo."

Milo fakes a laugh; no emotion is his tone. "This game would need to last one hundred years, Henri, for you to bankrupt me. But I would like to see you try."

"And try is what I'll do," Henri grins, downing his martini and waving for a new one.

Andre's lip twitches. "In France, it's frowned upon to flaunt one's wealth. It can be interpreted as arrogance."

Milo shoots daggers at Henri's third in command, his mouth opening to say something, but I interrupt him, my tone light as I quip, "Well good thing we're in Monaco, right? I think the motto of this sovereign state is—" I tap my fingers playfully against my lips. "If you got it, flaunt it."

Henri's boisterous laugh fills the frigid silence of the room, "Excellent point, Kiara! Excellent!" He nods at the dealer. "We're ready now, flip the card."

The dealer discards the top card from the deck before flipping the next card over and sliding it toward the others on the table. 10 of spades.

" Merde !" Henri smacks the cushioning around the table, Marchello also letting out a frustrated grumble.

After one more round of bets, I grin as everyone turns over their cards. No one folded. And looking around the table at the abysmal display of poker talent, most of them should have thrown in the towel at the flop.

Except for Milo, who has a straight of 8, 9, 10, J, Q, and the man on Henri's left side who has three of kind and a high Ace.

"You bastard!" Henri shoots Milo a friendly glare, slapping his friend's back. "Antoine almost had you! But I guess the house always wins."

"Actually…" I clear my throat, a smug smile on my face as I reveal my hand—a flush of all Spades. "It would seem that I'm the bastard."

Milo's head whips toward me, his lips curled up into a smirk. "Beginner's luck, perhaps?"

I shrug coyly as the dealer pushes my winnings toward my growing pile. "I guess we will soon find out."

He shakes his head, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "You are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Maybe all that glitters is gold," Andre mutters, not even bothering to turn over his cards.

For the next three hours, hundreds of thousands of euros are exchanged between the six of us, the game getting sloppier as the night progresses. Binge drinking and snorting lines of cocaine do nothing for the Frenchmen except make them sore losers .

"Fuck!" Antoine roars when the last card is flipped. He runs his hand through his mousy brown hair. "I'm out. My wife is going to kill me!"

Marchello laughs, scooping up his winnings. "I think it's time to go to Sezza." He grabs the attention of one of our many bodyguards. "Cash out for us."

Luigi nods as the six of us get up and stretch, everyone slightly wobbly and off-kilter from drinking excessively and sitting down for so long. Even with bathroom breaks, the muscles in my legs feel tense.

"Can we walk there?" I ask Milo, grabbing my fur stole off the back of the chair and wrapping it around my body. "Is it close?"

"Yes, it is only a five-minute walk."

Milo leads me out of the private room, our broke friends in tow.