Page 46 of Filthy Little Fix

He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, in the shadows. His gaze moves from Grigory's red face to my stack of chips. And then to me.

The anger I saw in Dante before, the fury he felt because I had exposed myself to Svetlana, all of that is here. But now it's different. It's possessive. He's watching his toy playing with other people.

That's why Grigory was so nervous. He didn't want to lose to the IT kid, of course, but he didn't want to lose to anyone in front of Dante. He couldn't, not in front of the boss.

Excitement rushes through my body. His perception is more important than any stack of chips.

I don't change my strategy. I keep bluffing with shitty hands, reading their tells, and betting high. With each round, the pile of chips in front of me grows.

Marco, with his neck scar, is sweating. He scratches his chin so hard his skin is turning red. Grigory curses at me with every hand he loses. Ruslan has pulled the knife from his waistband to spin it in his fingers as a nervous tic.

They look at me, searching for a clue, a hesitation, anything.

I win a round with a pair of twos.

"What the hell, kid?" Grigory shouts, throwing his cards in anger. "You don't have fucking anything! Again!"

I shrug. "What a shame."

I keep winning. The laughter and conversation cease, replaced by a tense silence. They stared at me before with veiled contempt, but now the pile of chips in front of me is ridiculous, and there's nothing left to explain it other than the IT kid being better than them at a game of bluff and intimidation. The perks of not giving a shit, I guess; I have all the chips. They have nothing left to bet.

I stretch my arms and push the pile of chips to the center of the table.

"You can have them," I say. "I was just bored."

The chips scatter like a pile of trash. The capos look at me, dumbfounded. They don't understand that I don't care about money.

I turn to leave the room, and I feel Dante's gaze on my back. A burning, possessive look that I crave. Satisfaction is my fuel, and I hope he enjoyed the show.

That's when I hear his voice. Low. Hoarse. A sound that makes me want to kneel.

"Nyx. My office. Now."

I turn to him. The smirk that escapes does nothing to hide my excitement. "Am I in trouble?"

He doesn't move. His eyes kill me with their heat.

"Now."

I nod. The apathy disappears.Finally.

I follow Luca out of the room, and I know all the capos are watching us.

The last thing I hear is Marco's whisper, "He's in trouble."

I smile. No, I'm not. I'mexactlywhere I want to be.

Luca abandonsme at the door. He lets Dante walk in behind me, and I hear the door close and click shut.

We're alone.

Dante's office is what you'd expect of him—a large room in shades of wood and black, with an ebony desk and a genuine leather armchair. Like the game room, this place also smells of tobacco, but the scent is richer, more intense. I see bottles of smoky and spicy whiskeys, lowball glasses, and an ashtray with cigarette butts.

I turn to face him. He scrutinizes me with his chin raised and his arms crossed. He's much taller than me, and it makes him look even more superior.

Honestly, I'd let him fuck my mouth in front of those capos if he ordered me to kneel with that look.

"You're an arrogant little shit," he says. "What did you think you were doing?" He's not as aggressive as I'd like—but the thing that scared him last time is still there: a strange, intrusive softness that only appears between the lines, and which sends a rocket of heat to my groin.