Page 11 of Ace of Hearts

She whistles, crossing her arms. “I just want to make sure this poor girl isn’t being forced to marry you. She didn’t look insane. Naturally, I’m intrigued.”

“She’s perfectly willing, I assure you,” I retort coldly.

“Given that face of yours, I believe it. In fact, I’m tempted to invite you to dinner, but Taylor Swift tells me I’d be pushing my luck ...”

I raise an eyebrow, feeling completely lost. “Is she a friend of yours?”

“If only! No, she’s my inner voice.”

Okaaay. Not weird at all .

“In that case, Taylor Swift is right. See you.”

I step outside with one hand in my pocket; the other hand keeping a firm hold of my bag. I don’t follow the other players, preferring to sit by myself in a corner near the pool, in the shade of the Greek statues.

As I wait, I conduct an inner debriefing.

Li Mei always acts needy in front of everyone.

Other than that, things are working out so far just as I thought they would.

One of the players at my first table, not someone I recognize as part of the usual cohort, particularly caught my notice.

He hardly moved, just seemed to keep his attention focused on his earphones.

He must have been a pro—and judging by his appearance, a pretty competent one.

I know it sounds stupid, but a person’s looks convey a lot.

Rose finally appears, minus the wig and glasses. She runs her hand down the length of my arm before sitting next to me with a winning smile. “Hello, Lyubimiy . So, how was the first morning? Did you make some new little friends?”

A shiver runs through me. I should never have let her call me that. I bitterly regret it now that I know how it makes me feel. I ignore her playacting and ask what she’s managed to observe during the first session. The breaks aren’t as long as I’d like, so we don’t have time to waste.

“That gorgeous girl who kept flirting with you,” she responds, serious again now.

“Li Mei Qian.”

“She doesn’t know how to hide her emotions. Every time she has a good hand, her eyes narrow just a little and crease up at the corners. You can also see her mouth opening as though she’s about to smile.”

I frown, intrigued. “I’ve been observing all the players, but I’ve never seen her smile when she looks at her cards.”

“That’s why it’s called a microexpression,” she shoots back, clearly annoyed that I’m questioning her analysis. “It only lasts half a second. Often, a person’s expression is completely neutral immediately afterward. It’s hard to see.”

I know she’s right. I nod slowly, impressed, and ask what else she’s got to report.

“The guy on your right at the first table: he thinks he’s better than everyone else. He’s very confident. You can tell by the way he clasps his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his legs under the table. He looks down on everyone, especially you.”

I already knew all that, because I beat him in the semifinal last year, but I’m curious to know what Rose thinks of him. “How can you tell?”

“His attention was completely focused on you. Disdain is the only asymmetrical microexpression: only half the face moves. I could see the right-hand side of his mouth twitch slightly.”

“I guess that means he’s not much of a threat.”

“On the contrary. The level of disdain is disproportionate to the twitch. If it’s just a slight twitch, that means he’s trying to hide it, and the disdain is actually quite strong.

It’s likely he’s got a grudge against you, but I don’t know why.

He’s getting too comfortable, though, and forgetting to pay attention to what the other players are doing. ”

“Meaning?”

She stares into the distance, thinking. A drop of sweat runs down her forehead.

“I’d describe his game as ‘tight-passive’: that is to say, if he decides on something, he really goes for it; on the other hand, he doesn’t take risks with his bets. He only raises if he’s sure of having a winning hand, which makes his strategy too predictable. I think he’ll slip up before long.”

I was right: Rose is going to be a godsend. I smile inwardly and murmur, “Not bad, Alfieri.”

She confirms that none of the players I’ve come up against so far has been terribly good, except maybe Wittelsbach, the guy in the Jurassic Park T-shirt. Like me, she can’t quite work him out.

I ask if she’s seen Tito, but she shakes her head.

“Or Thomas either. I think they’re in the other room.”

I nod, then glance at my watch and get up. Rose does the same, fanning her face with her hand. It’s sweltering outside, and has been since the early morning, a sharp contrast to the hotel’s air-conditioned rooms. Every year I come here, I manage to get ill.

I remind her to stay hydrated, and add in a low voice, noticing a few other players sneaking looks at us, “It’s time to go back in.” I drop a kiss on her cheek and head off without allowing myself the pleasure of seeing her reaction.

The first day’s play lasts ten hours, a sweet form of torture. I spend the afternoon with my sunglasses on, noise-canceling headphones covering my ears. I lose all sense of time. That’s the risk in places like this: you could spend days here and never once go outside.

In the evening, I find Rose slumped on the sofa in our suite, barefoot, her wig tossed on the floor. I notice some marks, probably red, on her heels. Sweat makes her bangs stick to her forehead. I feel a bit sorry for her.

“Everything OK?”

She doesn’t answer, just covers her eyes with her arm. I go get a bottle of cool water and leave it next to her. She’s worked hard.

“This isn’t a walk in the park. You need to go to bed early and drink plenty during the day,” I advise her. All I get in reply is a grunt.

I take a shower, and by the time I’ve finished, Thomas is back. He tells me he’s seen Tito but hasn’t played against him yet. They’re in the Amazon Room, whereas I’ve been in the Pavilion Room all day.

I tell him about my own encounters, and about what Rose has observed. When I get back to the living room, my fake fiancée’s water bottle is already empty. She’s standing next to the television, hand on hip, staring at one of the paintings on the wall.

I watch her for a while before going over. The picture in front of us is incomprehensible to me: a mixture of colors I’m incapable of seeing, and shapes that look like the scribbles of a three-year-old child. “Do you like it?”

“It’s a Joan Miró,” she says. “A surrealist Catalan artist. I don’t like it; I love it.”

I wasn’t expecting that. She looks as though she knows what she’s talking about. I suppose she must love art. I like this idea, and I hate it all at the same time. I’m immediately overcome with jealousy. I resent her for being able to appreciate art and colors when I can’t.

“Do you like art?” she asks.

I can’t help replying brusquely. “No. Come on. We’re going out for dinner.”

At least that gets her attention. She looks at me with a fiendish grin. “OK, but I’m driving.”

I agree without admitting I’m not allowed to drive anyway.

She quickly showers and changes into a little backless black dress and Louboutin stilettos. She hasn’t made a huge effort, but she looks incredibly seductive, all in black like the wife of the devil. I guess it fits with the act.

In the lift on the way down, I ask what she wants to eat. She spends ages trying to decide after we step out, so I notice Tito long before she does.

I freeze at her side, quickly slipping my arm around her slim waist. She stops midsentence and raises her dark eyes to look at me in surprise, but I just smile down at her tenderly.

It’s the way my father used to smile at my mother.

A long, long time ago.

“The choice is yours, lyubimaya ,” I say. My love.

She seems to realize we’re being watched, and I take her hand and kiss her fingers lightly. She shivers and smiles back at me, resting her other hand near my heart. She can certainly react quickly when she wants to.

“That’s my favorite sentence,” she says.

He chooses to interrupt us just at that moment. “So here’s the woman who’s managed to turn the head of the great Levi Ivanovich ...,” he says in English.

We both turn, feigning surprise at seeing him there. Tito looks at us with a calculating smile. He’s alone. I drop my lovesick expression and greet him politely, but he seems much more interested in Rose.

“I’m Tito Ferragni. Pleased to meet you.”

“Rose Alfieri.”

Her tone is icy. She’s making it obvious that she doesn’t want to talk to him. I smile inwardly, making a mental note to buy her whatever she wants for dinner.

Not seeming to get the message, Tito exclaims with fake enthusiasm, “Oh, you’re Italian! è un piacere conoscerti .” He lapses into English again, presumably for my benefit. “Where are you from?”

I speak only a few words of Italian, but I gather he said he was pleased to meet her. I turn to Rose, who replies, head held high, “ Per me no. ” Did she say she’s not pleased? I’m not sure. She continues in English. “I was born in Florence.”

Whatever she said to him, he doesn’t look pleased about it.

“ Non importa, ” he says firmly. I caught that much: It’s not important, or something along those lines. “Anyway, I’m rather surprised. Levi getting married ... It’s unexpected. And so sudden too! It almost doesn’t seem real.”

I anticipated he wouldn’t be fooled that easily, of course. Tito isn’t stupid—he suspects I’m not in love with this woman. The goal of the masquerade is to convince him that I am.

I tighten my arm around Rose’s waist and assume a protective air, replying calmly, “We need to be on our way.”

Before we can leave, he adds, “Dear Jacob probably wouldn’t have approved.”

I stop dead, a horrible shiver running through me.

Rose watches, noting my reaction. My blood boils as I turn very slowly toward him.

How dare he mention my father at a time like this?

How dare he even say his name, after everything he did?

After all the plotting and, worse, after having insulted him after he was dead?

Rose touches my arm delicately, trying to prevent me from flying into a rage. She doesn’t know yet that losing my temper isn’t my style. My anger isn’t hot and explosive, like hers or Thomas’s. It’s cold and deadly. Silent. Patient. As calm as the surface of a lake.

I smile at Tito once again, but there’s nothing friendly in my expression, and we both know it. “And that just makes me love her all the more.”

I take Rose’s hand, and we continue toward the door. She walks beside me and calls back, “Arrivederci, perdente!”

I don’t need to be fluent in Italian to know what she’s said: Bye, loser. Or something to that effect.

I smile as we walk down the hotel steps hand in hand, but let her go as soon as we’re out of sight, eager to hide my trembling fingers in my pockets. Before I do, I throw her the car keys.

“I’m starting to see why you hate him,” she comments, catching them as they fly. “But there’s one thing I still don’t get. What have you got against him, apart from the fact that he’s a patronizing asshole?”

I get into the passenger seat, serious now. I think about Tito, my father, my mother ... and instantly my good mood evaporates like snow in sunshine.

“Just that he ruined my life.”