Burned Dreams (Perfectly Imperfect #7)

“We would like to continue with checks, if you’d allow it,” Rocco’s host says.

I raise an eyebrow. Only precious stones are allowed as chips, and when you’re out of them, you’re done. Switching to checks is allowed only if all other players agree, and the “house” accepts the responsibility for handling the transaction. It is almost never done, due to one very specific reason: The player who uses anything other than stones to place a bet loses the option to fold, and he’s forced to call, match, or raise the bet. He must continue playing until the round ends.

Keeping my eyes on Rocco’s hands which are yet again gripping the table, I nod and throw a single emerald toward the center of the table.

“Approval granted,” my host declares, and the dealer proceeds with the next hand.

Obtaining the details on how much money Rocco Pisano has in his bank accounts, both legitimate and overseas wasn’t easy. It took Felix a few weeks to get that information for me. The total is a little over two million. I was rather surprised by that sum. Based on how much he spends on cars, I would’ve expected ten times that amount.

When the time comes to place a bet, I take twenty gems from the pile in front of me and slide them forward. I can’t see Rocco, but I can imagine the look on his face. He sits unmoving for a couple of moments, then takes out a checkbook, scribbling something with curt, angry moves. His host accepts the check Rocco hands him.

“One million,” the man declares and places a house chip in lieu of Rocco’s check in the middle of the table.

I can barely stifle a laugh. Not only did the stupid motherfucker call my bet, but he also doubled it. He must be desperate to get his diamonds back. I take the rest of my stones and push them forward, raising the total bet to two million.

Rocco Pisano has two options. To match my raise by adding another million. Or to raise again. However, according to the rules of this tournament, the new raise must be double the sum of what I just put forward. And I know he doesn’t have enough money left in his accounts to do that. He reaches for his pen and writes another check.

“One million, amounting to a total of two million dollars,” Rocco’s host says and adds another house chip to the table.

“The bet has been called. Please show your hands,” announces the dealer.

Since I was the one who made the last raise, I should be the one to show my cards first. It seems like my opponent is too eager because he throws his cards down, and his hysterical laugh fills the room. I look down at his hand. Full house.

Rocco is still laughing when I place my cards on the table, then his laughter dies. Silence descends over the room, and only the sound of labored breathing can be heard from behind Rocco’s screen.

“We have royal flush here,” my host announces and turns to face me. “Congratulations, sir.”

I wait while the inspector approaches the dealer and replaces the chips with the equivalent number of stones. He then slides the diamonds toward me, and my host collects them and places them into my pouch. I take out four rocks and hand them over as a fee to the tournament organizers. With the transaction complete, my host motions for me to follow him out. Glancing at the screen to where Pisano is still sitting, I smile and leave the room.

The car that brought me to this location awaits when I exit the building. The driver is hovering by the back door and springs to open it as I approach. I stop before him and lift one gem in front of his face.

“Sir?” he asks as his eyes go wide at the sight of the shiny rock.

“I need to borrow this car.” I throw the diamond at him. “I’ll leave it at the same spot where you picked me up.”

“Yes, yes. Certainly.” He nods eagerly as he shuts the rear door, rushing to the driver’s side to get that one open instead. “Just leave the key in the glove box. I have a spare.”

The moment I get behind the wheel, I floor it, peeling out of the driveway.

When I get close to the Pisano mansion, I find a spot where I can get the car off the road and park behind some bushes which will conceal it from view should anyone happen to drive by. The remaining distance, I cover on foot. My analysis of camera placements on the perimeter wall and at the gate, as well as the field of view they cover, leads me to a location with direct sight of the entrance but falls into a blind spot. Then, I wait.

Half an hour later, headlights appear down the road, nearing the gate.

I know men like Rocco Pisano—arrogant, self-important bastards who can’t deal with the reality when someone bests them. They often need a way to shake off their ire when faced with their own failure, and usually with violence while blaming someone else. In the weeks I’ve been with Pisanos, I haven’t seen Rocco hurt his wife, but something still doesn’t add up. I can’t get that haunted look in Ravenna’s eyes out of my head.

An angry man may resort to violence, but a scared one will likely seek a hole to hide in. I want to make sure Rocco is the latter. So, as his car stops at the gate, waiting for the metal door to slide to the side, I take out my gun and aim at the back of the car. Then I empty my magazine into the rear window, fender, tail lights—anything I can, but avoid actually hitting Pisano.

The security guys rush out of the guardhouse, guns raised, and head toward the car to check on their boss. By the time they start combing the terrain around the gate, I’m already partway to the other side of the property where last week I hid a rope with a climbing hook in one of the bushes.

Getting over the wall poses no problem, but going across the yard takes me more than ten minutes because I need to zigzag my way along a specific path that keeps me out of the view of the cameras. When I reach another blind spot by the west wing of the mansion, I throw the hook up where it catches on the balcony handrail. The skin on my hands feels raw from climbing the rope with no gloves on by the time I get to the top. I pull the rope up and crouch behind the parapet so I’m hidden from view.

The glass door is closed, and the curtain is pulled over it, but the white sheer material still allows me to see through it. Ravenna is sleeping curled under a blanket. I’m not even sure when I started thinking of her as “Ravenna” instead of “Mrs. Pisano,” but that’s what she is now. I can’t handle labeling her as a Pisano anymore. That asshole’s name is too filthy for her to bear.

I shift my attention to the bedroom door on the other side of the room and take the gun out of my holster.

The yells and hustle of the security guards as they search the grounds draw near. They must be moving this way.

What the fuck am I doing—keeping watch over the woman I’m planning to slay? Risking exposure because I need to be sure that the son of a bitch won’t be hurting her? I shake my head as if it’ll help clear my fucked-up mind.