Page 20 of Ace of Hearts

Rose

June

Las Vegas, USA

At first, I don’t understand what’s happened.

A second ago, my lips were almost touching Levi’s. Now he jumps and pulls me roughly to the ground as a sound like a bomb going off rips through the suite. My heart pounds in fear as he protects my head between his trembling arms.

We stay like that for a few seconds. Nothing happens. We’re still alone. I prop myself up tentatively on one elbow and hear a second crash, which is followed by a flash of blue light on the walls.

Levi jumps again, his hands like a vise around my shoulders, but I realize it’s just a storm. Nothing more.

“Levi ... you’re hurting me,” I groan.

His eyes are wide in his pale face, full of some unknown terror. I’ve never seen him like this before. Did he think he’d heard shots? Puzzled, I reassure him, telling him it was only thunder.

He closes his eyes and lets go of me, slumping back against the wall.

He puts two fingers on his wrist, as though to take his pulse.

His face is calm but extremely pale, as if he might faint.

I wonder if he’s trying to control himself because I’m there.

His hands are still trembling, and he’s struggling for breath.

Is he having a panic attack?

“Are you OK?”

He opens his eyes but avoids my gaze. His eyes are cold and serious.

“Fine. Can you bring me my jacket from my bedroom please?” he says through clenched teeth. “Quickly.”

His jacket? I don’t know why he wants it, but I rush to do as he asks. The warm, sexy atmosphere of a few minutes ago has completely evaporated. I’ve sobered up too. In his room, I see at least four jackets draped over the chair. Two black, one blue, one gray.

He didn’t say which, so I bring them all. As I’m walking out, I see something lying on his bed and grab it too.

“I didn’t know which one you wanted,” I say, kneeling in front of him, “The gray, the blue, or ...”

“I don’t have a gray jacket, and I definitely don’t have a blue one,” he says crossly. “I only wear black.” He looks at the jackets in confusion.

“Are these not yours?”

A pause, then, “Yes, they’re mine.”

OK ... I purse my lips, silent.

“I see. Which color, then? What are you looking for?”

He hesitates, looking lost. His breathing is even more irregular now, and he shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“There’s a box of Afobazole in one of the inside pockets.”

“Which one, Levi?” I start to rifle though all the pockets.

“The black one . . . I think . . .”

I start looking in the pockets of the first black jacket, trying not to stress out, but he stops me. “Not that one.”

I search the other one, but he interrupts me again.

“That one, with the white buttons.” He points at the gray jacket.

I frown, pausing to look at him properly. Is he really that drunk? I don’t stop to ask, not when he’s trembling like that. I just grab the gray jacket and find a box of tablets. I open it and put a pill on his tongue.

He closes his eyes and swallows it. I don’t say anything for a while. There’s another clap of thunder, and Levi grimaces, so I pull out the thing I took from his bed; he seems surprised.

“Look.”

He keeps his eyes fixed on mine as I put the noise-reducing headphones over his ears. Within seconds he looks grateful and calmer. Lightning is still flaring in the sky, but now he seems totally immune to the noise.

Once the storm has passed, I gently take the headphones off him and whisper that it’s all over. He’s stopped trembling now, and his cheeks have a little more color in them.

“Levi . . .”

He opens his eyes again and looks at me. I can tell by his expression that he already knows what I’m about to say, and that he would give anything to avoid it. I still hope I’m wrong.

“This jacket is gray, not black,” I say quietly.

He’s silent and impassive, still staring at me. After a long pause, he sighs. “I’m going to have to have a word with Thomas about that.”

What exactly does that mean? I point to my own jacket and ask him what color it is.

“It’s late . . .”

“Answer me, Levi.”

He clenches his jaw and looks at me, annoyed, before resigning himself to answering. “Green?”

Shit .

“It’s brown.”

He nods, betraying no surprise, and gets up as gracefully as possible. I do the same, feeling shaken. Is he color-blind?

More importantly, what just happened? A panic attack caused by a storm? Surely that’s a symptom of something much worse.

“Levi ... Can you not see colors?”

He bends down and picks up his jackets in one swift movement. He looks at them carefully as he walks toward the kitchen, then takes the two I said are gray and blue and puts them in the bin.

“Good night, Rose.”

And that’s it. He goes back into his room as though nothing had happened. No explanation. I stand there alone like an idiot for a long time, trying to process it all.

Back in my own room, I sit on my bed and ponder.

Details I didn’t notice before begin to float to the surface of my memory, like bodies from the bottom of a river.

His sunglasses, which he wears even when it’s just the two of us.

The fact that he never uses colors to describe things: it’s always their shape, texture, or size.

Even the poker chips he has to look at carefully, as though their color alone isn’t enough to tell him how much they’re worth.

Have I just discovered one of Levi Ivanovich’s secrets? There are plenty of people who’d kill for that information. Most would use it against him, of course. I thought all this was “just poker,” but I was naive. When there’s money involved, it’s never “just” anything.

There are so many rumors going around about him; some nasty, perverted, fetishist, or even gory.

I’ve heard them as I’ve been walking around among the players, but I’ve read them on the internet too.

My fake fiancé seems to inspire as much fear as he does respect.

Some say he’s part of the Russian mafia. Others say he’s a cheat.

I don’t believe any of it. Especially after this evening. But I’m sure he’s hiding more than I thought.

My mobile vibrates on my bed. I glance at it and sigh. It’s two in the morning, and I’m exhausted and still a bit drunk. But I change and leave the suite as quietly as I can. I take the lift down and get into a taxi in front of the hotel.

I let my tired eyes run over the view of Las Vegas at night, still lit up everywhere. Ten minutes later, I get out opposite a bar that’s still open.

“Keep the change,” I tell the driver.

I push open the door, feeling downcast, and walk toward the bar, urging myself on. Everything’ll be fine. I’m strong. I won’t let myself be walked all over, not this time.

I sit down, pick up the glass of wine that’s already waiting patiently for me, and look up at Tito, who’s sitting next to me and smiling.

“Hi, Dad,” I say.

When my father heard he had a daughter, he reportedly sighed.

My aunt told me, doubtless wanting to wound me, that all he said was, “Next time we’ll get it right.” But after I was born, my mother didn’t have any more children. I personally think that was karma.

My father adapted quickly, though. It was quite simple: if my mother couldn’t give him a son, he would create one himself.

He put me in every boys’ sport he could think of: basketball, football, tennis, handball, boxing .

.. He even initiated me into hunting, which is one of the things I hate most in the world.

He watched me burst into tears at the sight of a dead boar, and that still didn’t stop him. I was six at the time.

When he found me kissing my first boyfriend, he looked at me with disappointment and said one word.

“Disgusting.”

I think that was when he finally realized I was a girl, and there was nothing he could do to change that. Still, he insisted on teaching me poker. That was probably the only time he was impressed by something I did. He told me I had a gift. Said that, in the end, I really was my father’s daughter.

He took full advantage of my talent, naturally.

I thought it would be something that could bring us together, finally, and allow us to become close.

I spent my whole life thinking that, accepting everything he put me through, in the hope that he’d be proud of me and show me he loved me, but it never happened.

Poker was no exception.

He soon began to boast about my gift and show off to his friends over talents that weren’t even his. I brought him money, lots of money.

Until that wasn’t enough anymore.

“How’s Mom doing?” is the first question I ask.

“All right, I guess. She’s still in Venice. She doesn’t suspect a thing.”

Good. I’d hate for her to know. She’d worry about me and try to stop my father from dragging me into his schemes.

I hate myself for lying to her, but I’m doing it for us.

She asked him for a divorce six months ago.

He still thinks he can talk her out of it, but I know her mind is made up, and I’d do anything to help her stick to her decision.

I love my father as much as I hate him. That’s the problem.

“So,” he says, eyeing me intensely, “it seems congratulations are in order ... Mrs. Ivanovich?”

I roll my eyes and cross my legs.

He adds, “That wasn’t part of our plan.”

“I was as surprised as you were,” I say, hoping he believes me. “But it’s not such a bad thing in the end. It means I can get closer to him, which serves our goal.”

He nods, still scrutinizing me. I force myself to stay calm and ignore the glass of wine in front of me. I’ve had enough for one evening.

“I’m curious. Now you’ve gotten to know him ... what do you think of him?”