He Said , “Go Die”

In the VIP lounge of an underground casino, Maeve, the Falcone family's princess, had been plied with too much hard liquor.

Fueled by alcohol, someone goaded her into revealing the most shameless thing she'd ever done to win over the Don.

She swirled her glass, pointed at me dealing cards behind the table, and threw her head back with a laugh.

"Seven years ago, when Declan was in a coma after a shootout, I took his private phone. And I deleted the distress message that bitch sent him. Every last trace of it. Then I replied in his name: You're a burden. Go die."

"You'll never guess what happened next. That idiot stood outside the safe house all night in a downpour, like a stray dog. I almost died laughing…"

The room erupted in crude laughter.

Only the man enthroned at the head of the table remained silent. The crystal whiskey glass in his hand shattered with a sharp crack.

Blood mixed with the amber liquor, trickling over the veins on the back of his hand before dripping onto the carpet.

His murderous, bloodshot eyes were locked on me.

I calmly dealt the last hole card in front of him and offered a clean, white silk handkerchief. "Don Declan, you should wipe your hand. Blood on the felt is bad luck."

After all, some stains never wash out.

Seven years ago, I begged my boyfriend, Declan, to save my father's life.

When we met again, he was the youngest Don in the city, and I was just the woman dealing his cards.

Someone had dared his fiancée, the princess Maeve, to share the most shameless thing she'd ever done to win him over.

She pointed at me and laughed, boasting about how she'd intercepted my distress message to Declan, leaving me to wait all night in the rain for nothing.

Everyone laughed, except for Declan. Enthroned at the head of the table, his eyes were bloodshot. "Is that true? Why did you really leave me?"

I calmly dealt his hole cards. "Because you told me to go die."

The most exclusive underground casino in the city was booked for a private event tonight.

Word on the street was that a new Don, one who'd clawed his way up over a mountain of bodies, was back in town and holding court.

When the manager handed me the table assignments, his eyes held a hint of pity I couldn't quite decipher.

"Sienna, that lounge tonight… if you don't want to go, I can arrange for another dealer."

I tugged at the lapels of my low-cut dealer's vest and managed a faint smile.

"It's fine, sir. That's the highest-stakes table we have. The tips are huge. I need the money, you know that."

The manager sighed and said no more, only patting me on the shoulder.

As I pushed the chip cart into the VIP lounge, the acrid smoke of Cuban cigars mingled with the heavy scent of perfume, an assault on my