3. RADOMIR

Chapter 3

RADOMIR

The VIP room hums with shuffling cards, muted whispers, and the soft clink of crystal glasses against mahogany. It’s a carefully curated illusion, a gilded trap designed to lure in the rich and corrupt. Velvet curtains swallow the room in shadows, while leather armchairs pin players in place at polished tables.

Silver trays, laden with caviar, glide effortlessly through the room, their elegance a subtle distraction from the invisible chains binding my guests to my will. Once they’re here, they belong to me—bound by unspoken debts they barely notice until they can’t walk away.

Every movement in this room bends to my design. A perfectly timed joke, the brush of a beautiful server’s arm as she leans in with a tray, or the sly offering of complimentary poker chips—each distraction calculated as my housemen quietly tip the scales in my favor.

Vodka flows freely, loosening inhibitions and wallets alike. I let my guests taste victory now and then, just enough to sustain the illusion. By the time they realize the house—my house—always wins, the game is already over.

Tonight’s hastily assembled game surpasses even my expectations. Politicians rub shoulders with criminals, their egos colliding over high-stakes bets. Businessmen with fortunes as dubious as their morals throw chips onto the felt with reckless abandon.

But tonight, this game isn’t about mere money. My eyes settle on Mark Dalton—a pitiful wreck soaked in desperation and cheap booze. He’s a gambler who’s already lost everything, yet clings to the fantasy of redemption like a drowning man grasping at smoke. His gambling addiction could swallow the city whole, yet I’ve kept him alive. He’s been useful, until now.

Recent intel suggests he’s been holding out on me. A Greek prisoner, shattered by my men’s careful persuasion, uttered a name I’ve hunted for a decade: the Greek Matriarch. The ghost who ordered the deaths of my father and uncle. Her name alone silences men, yet here she is, stirring the waters again. And somehow, Mark Dalton is the key to finding her.

Even with the room’s even temperature, Dalton sweats like he’s sitting in hell’s furnace. Each chip he loses pulls him closer to the edge, exactly where I want him. Two players fold on cue, leaving just Mark and me. I’m about to see his bet when the doors burst open.

A woman storms in, her wild auburn hair and blazing eyes like a lightning strike in the heart of my domain—electric and unrestrained. My gut tightens, heat pooling low as an unwelcome distraction takes hold.

Dalton freezes, his face draining of color. I follow his gaze, intrigued, as it lands on the fiery-haired woman. “Friend of yours, Dalton?” I murmur, though the answer is already clear.

Dalton stumbles over his words, choking on his drink. “My... my daughter,” he stammers, his voice a cracked whisper. “Leigh.”

Daughter? This changes things.

I study her carefully. Petite but fierce, her movements sharp and deliberate. She’s arguing with Fredrik, one of my soldiers, her hand curling around a vodka bottle from a nearby table. The look in her eyes suggests she’s not after a drink.

Mark’s desperation is a vulnerability I can exploit. A daughter he kept hidden? That’s no accident. There’s power in her presence—leverage Mark doesn’t realize he’s about to hand me.

“How old is she?” I ask casually. He looks at me confused. “Your daughter. How old is she?”

Mark’s bloodshot eyes dart nervously between me and Leigh. “Uh... twenty-two—no, twenty-three,’ he stammers before correcting himself. “No, she’s twenty-two.”

“Are you sure?” Who the fuck doesn’t know how old their child is? Jesus.

“Yes, Leigh was twenty-two in June.” He shifts in his chair. “I should talk to her.”

“You know the rules Mark.” I lean back, savoring his discomfort. “No personal chats unless there’s an emergency.”

“I just need to ask her to wait in the Diamond Lounge,” he pleads.

I let the silence stretch, my gaze shifting between father and daughter, pieces on a chessboard I’ve yet to fully comprehend. The game has changed, and I’m already calculating my next move.

I glance at Mark. His eyes flick from his daughter to the pile of money. Mm. He’s a man torn between his greed and loyalty to his daughter . I can use that and gain even a bigger advantage than just money over the man.

“Fredrik,” I say, tapping my earpiece. “Watch out for the bottle in Miss Dalton’s hand. I think she’s going to use your head for target practice. Stall her until I ask you to bring her to me. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Fredrik nods, grips her wrist, and drags her toward me. She thrashes against his hold, but he doesn’t flinch. I turn to Mark, his eyes widening in distress.

“I’m looking forward to meeting your daughter... Leigh, did you say?”

“Please…” Mark’s astonished gaze locks on me, fear flashing in his eyes. “I’m sorry she’s barreled in here like that. But she has nothing to do with this—whatever I do has no bearing on her.” He swallows. “She’s angry at me. I did something that I’m not proud of. Please just let her go.” His head turns toward her and then back to me. “Leigh just has a quick temper and doesn’t think things through. If you give me five minutes, I’ll make her go to the Diamond Lounge. I’m sorry she’s causing a scene.”

I watch him. He seems genuinely concerned for Leigh. I wonder just how concerned he is! I’m about to put his paternal instincts to the test.

“If you need to talk to her so badly, let’s finish this game.” I push my pile of chips into the center of the table, watching his eyes bulge, knowing he can’t cover the bet. “All in.”

“No…” Mark breathes. I can see the defeat cloud his eyes. He turns to me, trying for one more lifeline. “Please... just extend me a bit more credit.”

“No more credit Mark.” I lean forward. “But maybe you have something else of value I want.”

“My Cadillac?” Mark says. “It’s vintage in mint condition.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I was thinking...” I watch him blink, confused about what else I could want. I make a show of letting him know precisely what that is as I turn and let my gaze drift toward his daughter. “Her.” I nod toward Leigh.

Horror claims his features: mouth agape, skin blanching under impossible choices that strip dignity down to bare bones. “You can’t—“

My eyes narrow, and my voice is cold. “Here’s the deal. Your daughter to cover your bet and win or lose... for Leigh, I’ll also clear your debt. You walk away free. But if you fold, I’ll double your debt by morning.” I glance at the pile of chips and then look menacingly at him, lowering my voice warningly. “And I’ll still come for your daughter.”

His eyes widen, and the fear in them intensifies. To give him his dues, the man still hesitates, torn between desperation and whatever scraps of dignity or humanity he has left. I indicate for Fredrik to bring the spitting-mad Leigh he’s struggling to hold onto over to the table. The whole way, her green eyes blazing hotter as she’s dragged to stand before me. She’s even more beautiful up close.

Her gaze connects with mine, a flicker of recognition sparking in those vibrant green eyes —eyes that hold fire and defiance, but also something deeper, something that tempts me to look closer. For a heartbeat, fear dances in their depths, quickly masked by fierce defiance.

Her open sweater frames a tight pink T-shirt clinging to her form, highlighting her lithe figure. It accentuates her pert breasts and trim torso, each breath subtly shifting the fabric. Her faded denim jeans grip her hips snugly, tracing the length of her legs like a second skin.

My pulse quickens at the sight of this brazen interruption to my well-ordered world. I steel myself against the rising tide of desire, knowing that before dawn breaks, I will have unraveled the mystery she presents and claimed not just victory at this table but perhaps something even more compelling: Leigh Dalton herself.

I turn my attention to Mark.

“What’s your move, Mark?” My voice cuts through the tension, deliberate and loud enough for Leigh to catch every word.

“Mark’s hand trembles as his gaze darts between me and the mountain of chips dominating the center of the table. “Please,” he stammers, “I can get you the money.”

“Dad?” Leigh’s jaw clenches. Her posture stiffens. “What the fuck are you doing?” Her eyes cut to the pot, and she sucks in her breath. Fury ignites in her, turning her eyes a dark leafy green and narrowing to slits.

My eyes lock on Mark, steady and unrelenting. “Your daughter…” The words hang in the air as I turn my gaze to her, slow and deliberate, like appraising a prize at an auction. Her eyes widen, filling with horror and disbelief, and I let the silence stretch, giving the meaning time to take root. Then I shift back to Mark, dismissing her without a second thought. “To cover your bet and clear your debt.”

“You’re not seriously considering this, Dad ?“ Leigh’s voice slices through the room, sharp with incredulity. Her eyes flick to Mark, widening as her father’s hesitation betrays his thoughts. Then she swings back to me, her face tight with disbelief. “You can’t be serious!”

I arch an eyebrow, sinking deeper into my leather chair. The weight of her gaze presses against me, but I maintain my composure, watching her intently. The air thickens with tension, heavy with unspoken accusations.

“I…” Mark stutters, not meeting Leigh’s eyes.

“ Dad !“ she cries out, her voice cracking. The raw betrayal in her tone hits me unexpectedly, twisting something deep in my chest. I clench my jaw, forcing down the unwelcome pang of emotion.

“Well, Mark?” My voice cuts through the tension.

I deliberately ignore Leigh’s desperate cry, forcing down the sharp pang of guilt clawing at the edges of my resolve—uncharacteristic, unwelcome, and utterly infuriating. But it refuses to go away. Like a silent enemy, my conscience rises, stirring something within me—soft, unfamiliar, and entirely out of place.

It twists in my chest, an unwelcome force that unsettles and infuriates me. I war with it, reminding myself with cold precision that Leigh is nothing more than a woman caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—a pawn, a weapon to use and discard. Nothing more.

Leigh struggles against Fredrik’s grip, her fingers clawing at his arms. Her green eyes blaze with a mixture of fury and desperation. She turns to Mark, her lips curling in disgust.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Leigh warns her father. “I swear, old man, if you do this, it will be the last thing you do on this earth.”

“I…” Mark starts and runs a finger around his collar as if it’s a noose slowly tightening. He’s a man caught in the middle. But I’m pretty sure I know which way he will lean.

“Okay, then!” I put my cards face down on the table and reach for the money. “I guess this game is over.”

“Wait!” Mark snaps, not looking at Leigh as he utters, “Fine. It’s a deal.”

“No, fucking way, you asshole!” Leigh yells at Mark. “You fucking backstabbing low life.” Fredrik clamps a hand over her mouth, muffling her protests.

Mark calls, and my eyes meet Leigh’s. She’s gone stock still. I can see her holding her breath, hoping that, by some miracle, her father will have the winning hand. Her eyes burn into mine, and for a moment, I wonder how someone like Mark could have created someone like her.

I lay my cards on the table, never breaking her gaze. I don’t have to look at them. Marks defeated gasp echoes the truth: in my house, the game only ends one way .