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The sleek black Range Rover pulled up outside the luxurious private club, a neutral location chosen for the high-stakes poker game with the O'Brians. They knew the rule; the fate of this business deal would be determined by whether they won or lost.

It would be in their best interest to win, considering how much they would benefit from this deal. The partnership, if successful, would essentially shift the status of the Tarasov Bratva to greater heights. However, with or without the O'Brians, we would attain such heights sooner or later. They, on the other hand, needed us more than they would care to admit.

The Irish mafia weren't particularly known for their straightforwardness in business dealings. Therefore, it was of utmost importance that we put our eyes on the ground and pay attention to even the most minute of details.

Patrick O'Brian wasn't a man I would underestimate for any reason. He was a cunning bastard, smart and quite a genius when it came down to business. His reputation preceded him, and tonight, I was here to oversee the game and make sure that O'Brians lived up to their end of the bargain.

It was believed that Patrick was as clever as a fox, and I needed to assess that claim. He was a man I was about to do a multi-million dollar business deal with. And just like every good businessman, I liked to know whom I was dealing with.

The soft click of the car door caught my attention as one of my men opened it. I stepped out into the cool evening air, buttoning my coat with my fingers and scanning the environment with my sharp eyes.

My most trusted man, Arlo, materialized by my side, shoes clicking against the pavement as he led me into the building. The club's discreet sign, adorned with intricate gold lettering, read, “Inferno,” Latin for hell . The soft glow of lanterns at the entrance cast warm light on our chiseled features as my men and I walked into the building.

Once inside, the ma?tre d’ greeted me with a respectful nod. “Mr. Tarasov, welcome. Your table awaits.”

With an air of confidence, my gaze swept across the grand space, drinking in the opulent decor. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, their warm glow enveloping the guests, the crème de la creme of society. The space was adorned with rich wood paneling and plush velvet drapes.

The soft hum of conversations blended with the scent of fine, expensive cigars and cologne as the aroma of champagne and canapés wafted through the air.

This was one of those gatherings of wolves in sheep's clothing. All of Chicago's elites were here tonight, their faces masked with politeness and curiosity.

However, I was here for one reason only, and in a short while, I spotted a familiar face: Connor Donnelly, the O’Brians’ most loyal foot soldier. He was seated at a table, his eyes fixed intently on the dealer.

Connor had a few other suited men around him and also a woman, but I didn't see Patrick. Did I set eyes on his son, Liam? Could it be possible that Patrick had sent Connor to represent his family?

“Ah, look who it is.” A deep voice cut through my thoughts, and I turned to face the speaker: a portly man with a bald head and white facial hair. “Erik Tarasov.” He chuckled, a wry smirk playing on his lips.

Miguel Gonzalez. He was a Mexican cartel, infamous for his inhumane torture skills and ruthless beheading of his victims. The man was a mindless beast with no code of honor—no rules to keep the monster within. Miguel had no problem killing women and children. So long as they crossed his line, he'd wiped them from the face of the Earth in the most gruesome ways ever.

We'd struck a few business deals in the past, and even for me, this man was creepy. Rumor had it that he was into some satanic shit and that most of his victims were sacrificed for wealth and power.

The man was feared by many, including a few of my men, who had steeled themselves the moment they heard his voice.

Fear was a concept that I was unfamiliar with. It was an emotion, a construct to keep people enslaved to someone with a higher power. Miguel might spread fear like wildfire wherever he went, but so did I, and I didn't have to make a pact with the devil to earn it. To many, I was the devil himself, and Miguel was just a man, regardless of what others might think.

“How long has it been, two years?” He shook my hand, his grip firm.

“Perhaps,” I replied, looking right into his dark eyes, my expression stoic.

He squinted ever so slightly, his smirk retained. “Most people don't look me in the eye that long,” he said, his voice laced with astonishment.

“I'm not most people. You should know that by now,” I replied, my tone calm and collected.

Miguel paused for a moment, maintaining my gaze, and amusement danced in his eyes. “Which master do you serve?”

With a blank expression, I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “What am I supposed to say? Azrael?”

He chuckled, burying a hand in the pocket of his white pants, his white blazer and facial hair complementing his overall look. This was a stark contrast to the beliefs he was believed to practice, and I appreciated the irony. For a man in his sixties, Miguel sure seemed twenty years younger.

“You have no fear, Tarasov,” he said, admiration creeping into his tone. “I like that.” He patted my shoulder and walked away to mingle with the others.

“That man gives me the creeps,” Arlo confessed, standing by my side. He smoothed down the fabric of his coat.

“Emphasis on ‘man,’ Arlo,” I said, my voice thick and husky as I shot him a quick glance. “He bleeds just like you.” I picked up a slender glass of champagne from a nearby waiter's tray.

“Mr. Tarasov.” A man in a gray suit approached me, extending a hand. “Good evening.”

“Victor.” I shook his hand; his grip was nothing compared to Miguel's, weightless like a woman's hands.

“I would have come to pay my respects earlier, but I had to wait for him to leave first.” Victor stole a glance in Miguel's direction. “I don't know you do it, but I can't stand that man.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper, laced with fear. “He's pure evil.” Victor straightened, blue eyes locked on mine. “And you're just as evil because you're not afraid of him—hell, you're not afraid of anything.” He chuckled.

Victor Conti, a business partner of mine, talked a lot, and as his voice droned on, my sharp green eyes continued to scan the room. Mentally, I cataloged the various players and their potential alliances, nodding to a few familiar faces, all while maintaining a cool, calculated demeanor.

“If Liam O'Brian were here tonight, he'd be crushing it right now.” Victor's statement snapped my attention back to him.

I traced his gaze to the table where Connor Donnelly was engrossed in a poker game. “Liam isn't here?” I asked, squinting, my eyes narrowing slightly.

“I haven't seen him,” he replied, checking his watch, “and if he's not here by now, then I don't think he's coming at all, which is strange.” He paused, looking at me. “Liam is skilled at the game…diplomatic,” he added.

“Yeah, I heard,” I said, my brows furrowing. My interest was piqued. “I also heard he's quite the charmer.” I sipped my glass.

Victor chuckled. “That's one way to put it,” he began, a faint grin lining the corners of his lips. “I've seen him talk his way out of a tight spot multiple times. I've watched him win in this game more times than I count…flawless.” The slight pause came when he shot a quick look back at the table. “The guy is that good.”

I scanned the room one more time, my gaze sweeping across the faces of the O'Brian’s representatives. “And yet, he isn't here tonight. Wonder why.” I lifted my glass to my lips, taking another sip.

I was looking forward to seeing the O'Brians’ golden boy in action, curious to find out whether he lived up to his reputation. However, he wasn't here tonight, and I couldn't help but wonder why. Patrick understood the gravity of this deal, and he didn't think to send the best man for the job? Something wasn't adding up.

Patrick O'Brian was a cunning man. What did he have up his sleeve now?

“Oh, shit, that was a wrong move,” Victor said, his eyes never leaving the O'Brians’ table.

My eyes returned to the poker game, studying the players for a moment. Conner was clearly losing, and from the looks of things, this was a crucial round that would determine their fate.

His forehead glistened with cold sweat, almost undetectable. Although he wore a stoic expression, I could sense his confidence wavering.

What a shame and a complete waste of my time!

My jaw clenched, and a wave of disappointment washed over me.

It would take a miracle for the game to turn around in their favor, and the chances of finding one in such a delicate round were zero.

“Scoot over.” A woman's soft voice, laced with determination, caught my attention just as I was about to leave.

My eyes fell on her, a beautiful young woman in a black dress—a knee-length gown that hugged her in all the right places. As she took control of the game, her black eyes, sharp and calculating, surveyed the table with expert precision.

Her dark hair fell in effortless waves on her back, and her face was etched with solemnity and determination. She focused on the game like her life depended on it. Her sharp, dark eyes locked onto the floor, a possible straight draw materializing on board.

This woman didn't waste any time; she seized the initiative, raising the stakes with a bet so bold that it left the others in awe. The other players exchanged glances amongst themselves, soft murmurs rising, but she didn't look like she gave a fuck.

I didn't realize that I'd arched my brows, astonished by the swift shift in the atmosphere. The game just got interesting.

Connor squinted at her as her fingers moved swiftly, pushing the stack of chips into the center of the table.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” one of the players asked, his eyes locked to her.

“She's feeling lucky tonight,” another said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“What can I say?” Her lips curled into a radiant smile, her tone smooth and endearing. “A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do,” she added, confidence lacing her tone.

Smart, I thought, admiring her ability to mask her plans and keep her opponents guessing.

As the turn card was revealed, a possible flush draw emerged, but her smile never wavered, nor did she flinch. This woman's confidence was off the charts. She continued to apply more pressure like someone who knew the game like the back of their hand.

Her bets and raises seemed to be expertly calibrated for the purpose of maximizing her chances of winning, however slim.

I dug a hand in my pocket, intrigued by her moves and the fiery look in her eyes. My curiosity was piqued, and I was interested in seeing how this would end.

The air around their table was thick with tension as the hand reached its climax, and I could feel my own anticipation growing. The other players were on the edge of their seats, their eyes fixed on her. I bet their hearts were racing in their chests as well.

Slowly, as if preying on their anticipation, she revealed her hand, a straight flush that left them all breathless. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, her radiant smile spreading across her face.

“Oh, come on,” Player One grumbled under his breath, his shoulders slumping in dismay.

“Well, well, well. Would you look at that?” said another player, a burly man with a thick beard. “Looks like we have a real player on our hands.”

Victor chuckled, stealing a glance at me. “I bet Connor wishes he'd let her take control from the beginning.”

My interest grew as I watched this woman with an intensity that bordered on fascination. Who was she?

“That's Tessa O'Brian, by the way,” Victor said as though he'd heard my thoughts. “Liam's younger sister.”

I sipped my champagne, my eyes never leaving her. “Interesting.”

A flicker of surprise and amusement swelled within me.

Tessa was different, unlike the polished and very predictable women I often encountered. There was a fire in her eyes that burned so bright, and her determination was rather admirable.

So, Patrick had sent his daughter to salvage their position? I didn't see that coming. It was a risky move, but then again, the man was cunning.

Tessa's skills at the poker table were remarkable—outstanding, even—and I was intrigued by them. However, my fascination was way beyond that. Tessa appeared to be the exact opposite of her family's reputation. Why hadn't I heard of her if she was this good?

Her brother, Liam, and his right-hand man, Connor Donnelly, were basically the face of the family. But with what I witnessed tonight, I could swear that this woman was just as good as her legendary brother. However, she seemed to have been in the shadows this entire time. Why?

Tessa was a formidable woman, one that I mustn't underestimate. The fact that she'd been at the poker table the whole time and I hadn't noticed her as someone significant meant that she was a force to be reckoned with.

Clearly, she'd mastered the art of being invisible and only revealing herself when necessary. That right there was a strategic thinker, a secret soldier whom I would underestimate at my own peril.

My lips curled into a fascinated grin. “Well, isn't that interesting?”