Dante's POV
The underground gambling den reeks of sweat, whiskey, and noise. I lean back in my seat, swirling a glass of bourbon in my hand, barely listening to the low hum of conversation around me. The place is packed tonight, men with too much money and not enough self-control throwing their chips into the pit, hoping for a miracle. I know better. There's no such thing as miracles here. Only the house is always winning, and men like me walk away with their pockets full.
I'm not here to play, though. I'm here to think. Leona. That woman is going to get herself killed. I rub a hand down my face, frustrated. She's too deep in this now, and Marco isn't the type to ignore a loose thread.
The way he looks at her? Like she belongs to him? It makes my blood boil. And then there's the way she looks back at him. Not with fear. Not with admiration..
