Chapter 4 The Warning

Valentina

The final hand still glows like an ember in the center of the table.

There’s something sacred about silence after a spectacle—like the air is holding its breath, waiting for the dust to settle.

I stay seated. Still. Poised.

I won’t be the first to move. That would feel like defeat.

Around me, the players rise one by one. Chairs scrape. Voices return, low and easy. Men stretch, laugh, pour the last of their drinks. A few of them beckon to the night’s ornaments—girls in short dresses and painted-on patience. The women move to their sides like smoke. Like property.

I wonder how many of them used to think they were the ones holding the leash.

I don’t look at them. I don’t need to.

I’m not one of them.

But I did just lose myself in front of all of them.

My hand—four aces—should’ve been untouchable. Unbeatable. And still, I lost.

To him.

Matteo hasn’t said another word since that final reveal. He left me sitting in the aftermath, my heart stitched into my chest with invisible thread.

Now, across the table, he rises.

No rush. No need for performance. He’s already won.

His right hand moves before he does. A man built like a battering ram with sleeves rolled to the elbow and eyes that don’t blink when they should. I recognize him instantly. Rosco Benetti. The name had floated through files and whispered conversations. Ex-military. Loyal only to Matteo. Unmoved by torture. Known for making bodies disappear with terrifying precision.

Rosco leans down and sweeps the winnings off the table with smooth efficiency. Chips. Cash. Even the marker slips some of the men left behind. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to.

He’s seen a hundred women who made bad bets.

He probably assumes I’m just another one.

But I’m not.

I’m the last bad bet Matteo Genovese will ever make.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Matteo finishes the last sip of his drink. He sets the glass down—precise, deliberate. Then he turns to me.

“I’ll give you the night,” he says.

His voice is calm. Like he’s just granted me a favor.

“To gather your things. Say goodbye to whatever version of yourself lived before tonight.”

He pauses. “A car will fetch you in the morning.”

I raise my chin. “You don’t know where I’m staying.”

He lifts one brow, a slow, amused thing.

“Or do I?”

My stomach tightens. But I don’t flinch.

He steps away. Rosco follows, the sound of his boots muffled on the marble floor.

But then—Matteo stops. Turns back to me.

His gaze sharpens, just a degree.

“And Valentina…”

My pulse skips.

He’s addressed me as Rossi all night—and now he chooses to use my first name.

“…don’t run.”

His voice is soft. Lethal.

“It won’t end well if you do.”

He turns again and walks away, disappearing through the arched doors like he owns the entire goddamn world.

Because right now—he thinks he does.

And technically, so far as the terms of the bet go… he owns me too.

I don’t remember the ride back to the hotel. Only that the streets blur and the car is quiet and I keep one hand clenched in my lap the entire time.

The moment I step into my suite, I pull off my heels and toss them across the room. They hit the wall with a dull thud and fall over like broken promises.

I stand in the center of the room for a second, staring out at the glittering skyline.

“You belong to me.”

The words echo in my skull like a gunshot.

And I let them.

Then I take a breath, cross to my suitcase, and start repacking. Neat. Efficient. Like I’ve done this a hundred times. Because I have.

But this time, I’m not running.

I’m walking in.

My burner phone buzzes from inside the nightstand. One long vibration, then silence.

Only one person has that number.

I answer on the second ring. “I know,” I say.

“You always were too bold,” he replies, voice like gravel and memory. “I trained you better than this.”

“No,” I correct. “You trained me for this.”

There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “Tell me.”

I pace the room, tucking lingerie and false passports into the lining of my bag as I talk.

“I lost the bet. He thinks he owns me now. He’s sending a car for me in the morning.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“And?”

“And it’s better than we hoped,” I say. “I didn’t expect an in this fast. I thought I’d have to seduce my way through his lieutenants first, maybe weasel into a contract deal, something slow. But this?” I zip the suitcase shut and sit on the edge of the bed. “This gets me inside.”

“You realize what it means, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I say. “He thinks I’m his now. Which means I’ll have access to everything. Every deal. Every safehouse. Every person.”

“Every risk.”

I smile faintly. “Come on, you love a little danger.”

“I don’t love losing you.”

“You won’t.”

Another pause. This one longer. His breathing shifts.

“I’ll activate the next protocol,” he says finally. “If things go south, we extract.”

“No extraction,” I say sharply. “Not unless I say so.”

“Valentina—”

“I’m not his. I’m not anyone’s. But I’ll let him think I am if it gets me what I need.”

A rustle on the other end. A low, muttered curse. Then: “You have 72 hours. If I don’t hear from you, I come for you myself.”

“Deal.”

The line clicks dead.

I set the phone down. Breathe in. Out.

The bet may have taken my freedom.

But it gave me proximity.

And proximity is how you kill a king.