Page 2 of Ace of Hearts

Rose

May

Macau, China

I desperately need some cash.

The problem is my brain thinks I need another sports car.

I’ve been in China two weeks now, and I’m already banned from four casinos. It seems the Chinese aren’t so different from the Italians: neither of them likes me very much. But I like them, and their gambling establishments, a lot.

I like going into a casino for the first time, hearing the noise of the machines and the cries of triumph, feeling both envy and euphoria. I like sitting down at a poker table and watching all those self-satisfied men underestimate me as they size up my cleavage and my burgundy lipstick.

But the best moment is when their patronizing sneers turn into black looks as I fleece them all. Usually, they keep right on playing—too proud to stop.

“Beginner’s luck, I see,” they always say, loud enough for me to hear them, explaining their own defeat.

The most arrogant ones won’t stop until they have no chips left. They’re my favorites. I love watching them make fools of themselves. Their money smells better than other people’s, if that’s possible, especially when I’m spending it on expensive shoes.

And that, in a nutshell, is my problem. I always either keep playing until I lose everything at roulette, or I blow my winnings afterward in one intense shopping session.

My latest extravagance: a bloodred Ferrari F8 Tributo, bought though I know full well I won’t be in China for long.

I’m at the wheel of this little beauty when I pull up at the entrance of the Venetian, one of the few casinos in the country that hasn’t thrown me out yet.

Night has fallen on Macau, and the building is lit up with a thousand lights. I extract myself from the car and pass the keys to the parking valet. My high heels on the steps resound like the lashes of a whip.

“Welcome to the Venetian,” the doorman says in English.

The Venetian in Macau is the world’s biggest casino, so I obviously had to see it with my own eyes. Taking its inspiration from Venice, it even has canals running through it, where couples share romantic moments in gondolas floating on the turquoise water. I admit it’s almost like the real thing.

It makes me nostalgic for home. I was born in Florence, in Italy, but I’ve always felt a need to explore the world. I never stop anywhere longer than a few months. This was fun to begin with, but I’m starting to tire of it ... I don’t feel at home anywhere.

I take determined steps across the huge foyer, letting my eyes drink everything in.

It always happens the same way: the adrenaline starts pumping in my veins, making my heart beat faster.

It’s the irresistible call of the lights and the slot machines that gets me, the bewitching urge to bet a small fortune with no way of knowing if I’ll win or lose, just so I can feel something .

I must be weak because, once again, I’m completely incapable of resisting. I need money, and there’s no way I’m selling Carlotta—yes, I’ve already given my Ferrari a name. That’s why I can’t give her back. At least, that’s one of the reasons.

I cross over the rosette mosaic set into the foyer floor and take an escalator up one level. Just as I’m preparing myself mentally to enter, my phone vibrates. It’s a video call from my mother.

Shit. She always has the worst timing.

I take refuge in a corner behind a column and answer, holding the phone up so I can see it. I can’t help myself: a huge smile spreads across my face when I see my mother sitting at the piano in our house.

She’s the only person who ever gets such a genuine smile out of me.

I touch my hand to my mouth and move it away again to say hello. She makes the same sign back to me, all smiles too. Though we have a close relationship, we don’t call each other often. She doesn’t like to talk on the phone. Because she’s deaf, we have to use FaceTime, which isn’t always easy.

“Where are you? It looks beautiful!” she says.

I sign with one hand. “The biggest casino in the world, the Venetian. I’ll send you photos!”

I try to keep my expression neutral so she can’t read it.

I’m a pro at keeping a straight face, but it’s impossible to pull the wool over my mother’s eyes.

She always knows. She’s the only one who can see through my lies—maybe because she’s the only one who cares enough to try.

That’s why it’s so hard for me to keep on traveling .

.. Sometimes I dream that my mother passes away while I’m far from home, and I panic.

I think I’d die if that happened. Being far away from her makes me miserable, and I know I need stability and a solid foundation.

Still, running away is more tempting than the idea of returning.

“We miss you. When are you coming home?”

I sigh inwardly. I miss her too ... But I can’t go back empty handed, with my tail between my legs. I came here to make some money so I can pay my debts and not owe anything to anyone.

My mother, a successful behavioral psychologist, always says that running away from my problems won’t make them disappear because, according to her, problems haunt minds, not places.

As though reading my thoughts, she adds with a worried look, “We agreed it would be better if you avoided casinos, Rose. You know that. You should come home.”

There it is. I try my best to give a reassuring smile, but my mouth trembles.

“I’m fine, Mom. All that’s over now. I’m better.”

“Would you buy a beer for an ex-alcoholic? No. And this is just the same. It’s still too soon ... Don’t tempt the devil.”

But tempting the devil is my passion, Mom. I gave him my soul a long time ago.

It’s true: hanging around casinos when you’ve previously spent several years as a gambling addict isn’t the best idea. But I really am cured! I hadn’t set foot in a casino for nearly a year until two months ago. I can handle a few rounds.

I’m much better now. I’ve hit rock bottom before, and I know what that’s like. But I’ve changed. I’m strong enough now ... even if I’ve had a few relapses. My quitting this time is for good.

It has to be.

“I’m in control!” I reply to my mother, with hurried signs. “I’ll play one round, maybe two; then I’ll leave. Promise.”

She narrows her eyes doubtfully but eventually gives me a smile. I know she doesn’t believe me, but she’s decided to trust me anyway. She’s like that.

I hang up quickly and stuff my phone into my clutch bag, then smooth my clothes and walk straight into one of the gaming rooms. It’s crowded.

I don’t know which way to look first. I keep my face expressionless and walk slowly, weaving between the tables and observing each player.

What I like most about playing is that it lets me become a different person.

Or at least, that was what I used to like.

Over time, though, wearing a mask has become a habit.

Now I do it even when I’m not playing. Nobody except my mother can really tell who I am or what I’m thinking.

Sometimes I even temporarily fool myself, but reality always manages to show through in the end. Damn reality .

My palms are itching. I can almost feel the weight of my chips in my bag. I haven’t got as many as I’d like, though. I’m good at winning money but very bad at keeping it. That’s my curse.

I see a group of older women having fun at one table, and a group of men in suits glowering at another. Casinos are full of all sorts of people. Anyone can play. Professionals, beginners, rich, poor ... Everyone thinks just a few dollars can change a life.

The casino gives everyone a chance, sure. But it takes a lot more than it gives. In my case, it took my mental health.

My gaze suddenly lands at a table in the middle of the big room lit by chandeliers.

A man has just sat down there. Poker. I take him in from head to foot very quickly.

He’s young, maybe thirty. He’s made an effort with his clothes: a nice shirt and black trousers.

There’s a backpack at his feet and a timer on the table.

I guess that he usually plays online, and he probably won’t be here for long.

I have no way of knowing if he’s good or not.

It doesn’t matter. I already know I’m going to win.

I sit down at his table without even glancing at him, crossing my long legs. I nod to the croupier. The other man starts talking to me in Mandarin, but I signal to him that I don’t understand, hoping he’ll let it drop. Most of the time, they don’t bother trying too hard.

“Roulette’s in the other room,” he taunts me in English, allowing himself a furtive glance at my breasts.

I turn and give him a cold smile in reply. A woman of around fifty joins us, and the game begins. I keep my face impassive and glance at my cards: a king of hearts and a king of clubs.

This is child’s play. Adrenaline pumps through my veins and makes my heart beat faster as I bet higher and higher.

I avoid the others’ gazes. I hate looking directly in players’ faces.

Instead, I concentrate with quiet excitement on the cards laid out in the middle of the baize. God, I’ve missed this!

It doesn’t take me long to win back what I bet and more. As I gather up the man’s chips, I finally look him in the eye and say in Italian, with just a hint of satisfaction, “Con le mani in tasca . ” As easy as pie.

I don’t hang around to see his reaction, and besides, I know he didn’t understand a word I said. I grab my bag and change tables. Blackjack calls to me dangerously. I give it two rounds, which I also win. The euphoria drives me on even though I promised my mother I wouldn’t do anything stupid.

After two hours, I realize I’ve been spotted. The croupiers have their eyes on me; I feel it the second I get up from a table and move around the room. That means I haven’t got long before they show me the door.

I already have a good haul. But I still want more.

Obviously. That’s how it works. More, more, more.

That’s the danger of addiction. And yet .

.. I’m also bored. I walk nonchalantly among the tables.

I’ve always loved playing, but it’s been a long time since it felt fun .

All the players are so predictable and dull. Nothing original about them.

I order a glass of wine at the bar and continue my prowling. Should I leave? No. Impossible. I’ve got to ...

Oh .

I stop walking and raise an eyebrow. Two tables away, three men are playing in tense silence. Nothing odd about that. Most people would pass them by without a second glance. And that’s exactly what everyone’s doing.

Even the croupier doesn’t seem to have noticed.

I let out a little laugh and stop to watch the man with the tattoos—the one hiding a card up the sleeve of his jacket.

As soon as I see his face, I understand this is a man who has skin in the game.

Quite literally.

I eye him curiously, without embarrassment: jet-black hair, eyes the color of storm clouds, a strong jawline, and pale cheeks with tattoos under the eyes—a diamond on the left cheek, a club on the right.

He’s very good looking. More than he has any business being. My mother always says that beauty is a weapon: useful for distracting people from terrible sins, or for getting those sins forgiven. This long-fingered cheat is living proof that she’s at least partly right.

I drop into a chair a few meters away and sip my wine while I watch them play. Unlike me, this man doesn’t avoid meeting the other players’ gazes. On the contrary, he stares at them with cold eyes until they play their hands; each one in turn. Seemingly defying them to accuse him.

Suddenly, as though sensing my scrutiny, he lifts his stormy eyes to meet mine.

Mamma mia . I have to stop myself from trembling under the intensity of his look.

I don’t lower my eyes. Instead, I give him a snide little half smile to show he’s not as clever as he thinks.

I immediately realize that he knows. He knows that I know.

Only two seconds pass before his calculating, impassive gaze gives way to a conspiratorial wink.

I can’t believe it. The nerve! Does he even know what he’s risking, cheating in a place like this?

“Flush,” he announces, turning his cards over.

Naturally, he wins hands down. He gathers up the chips with dignified movements, taking his time.

Nobody speaks. Nobody arrests him for cheating.

I hate myself for feeling curious, but I am.

Cheating in a casino is no joke. You really need to have a pair to attempt it—and I’m not talking about cards.

I bite my cheek as I contemplate his hair, long on top but shaved at the sides, the front section falling elegantly over his forehead. My whole body is on high alert: this man has Danger written all over him.

Of course, that just makes me want to dive in headfirst. So I only half hesitate when he leans back in his chair and, with an enticing look, extends the invitation.

“A round?”