The first thing I noticed was that the Boss’s face went still for just a fraction of a second—like I’d said something so absurd his brain needed to reboot before deciding whether to slap me, kill me, or laugh in my face.
And then, without warning, the laughter came. Not just a little chuckle, not even one of those villainous slow-burning snickers. No—this was a full, unhinged, gut-busting, table-slapping howl that rolled through the air like a drunken avalanche.
He threw his head back, his chest heaving, and the sound just... kept going.
It echoed off the stone walls and rattled the hanging chains. Tears started streaming down his face, and his knees actually bent like he was about to collapse from the sheer force of amusement.
My words—apparently—were the funniest thing that had happened in his entire criminal career, possibly his entire life. Which, you know, is flattering if you ignore the part where the laughter sounded like it could turn into a death sentence at any given moment.
"Did you all hear that?" he bellowed between wheezes, wiping at his eyes with one meaty palm. "This pretty little gutter-stray wants one more game. One more! Ohhh, I needed this today." He doubled over again, wheezing so hard I started to wonder if I should fetch him a cup of water or just watch and hope the problem solved itself via natural causes.
Outside, I kept my expression still with sultry disinterest. However, inward, I was grinding my teeth so hard I could have cut glass. Quiet ferocity, that was the goal—let him see it in my eyes, not hear it in my mouth. Give the impression that I could slit his throat with a single glance if only someone would hand me a butter knife and the element of surprise.
The Boss finally straightened up and swung his gaze toward his men, who’d gathered around like hyenas watching a squirming prey. "What do you think, boys? Should I indulge our little dove here?"
A roar of approval went up—cheers, whistles, the clank of spilled coins. A few even slapped each other’s backs like they’d just been told their birthdays were national holidays. My inner monologue noted that their enthusiasm was either proof they liked me, proof they hated me, or proof they were eager to watch me get dismantled for sport. Probably a healthy blend of all three, with a garnish of "maybe we’ll get to stuff him again."
The Boss sighed—a long, theatrical sound, the kind you do when you’re pretending to be reluctant but are already halfway to saying yes.
"Fine then," he said at last, leaning back with a weighty resignation that didn’t fool me for a second. "Let’s see if the pretty little parasite can dance twice without tripping over its own tail."
My pulse quickened, a staccato hammer in my chest, but I forced my lips into that practiced, slow curve of arrogance I’d perfected with years of practice.
"You know," I said, drawing out the syllables like honey dripping from a silver spoon, "I’d be more worried about your
His grin sharpened instantly, flashing teeth like a wolf deciding the rabbit had just talked back. "Careful, boy. You might just talk yourself into a tighter collar."
That image made my stomach flutter in a way I’d rather not dwell on in public, so I smirked instead. "I’ll take my chances."
He began circling me then—slow, predatory steps, his shadow dragging across the stone like spilled ink. My eyes tracked him lazily, giving just enough attention to imply I was aware of him without granting the satisfaction of my full focus. It was a trick I’d learned early: never let the predator forget you’re watching them, but never let them believe you’re doing only that.
He snapped his fingers without breaking stride, and like trained stagehands, a few of his men darted forward to start arranging a table in the center of the room. Bigger this time—thick wood scarred with knife marks and drink stains, heavy enough that its legs scraped a deep groan from the floor as it was set down. Chairs followed, mismatched but sturdy.
The Boss spoke over the noise, his tone casual but with that glint of calculation that meant nothing here was casual at all.
"Something more complex this time," he said. "Something with teeth. Let’s play poker."
I gave a slow nod, eyes flicking briefly toward Brutus. He was standing near the wall, arms folded, face unreadable except for that subtle crinkle around his eyes. Something about the fact he hadn’t said a word—hadn’t indulged himself in my earlier loss—made my heart twitch in an inconveniently sentimental way.
He caught my glance and gave a small nod, barely there but steady in its gesture. There was hope in that nod, and it made me sit a little straighter.
I turned back to the Boss, affecting a nonchalance I wasn’t quite feeling. "Poker, then. Fine by me. But I have to wonder... still got something up your sleeve?"
His grin deepened like a knife wound. "Always," then he continued, "Stakes remain the same as before, except—" He held up a finger. "If you lose this time, you stay with me. You’ll be my new pet. Head to toe, day in and day out, mine to use as I see fit."
I swallowed, not because I was afraid—well, not only because I was afraid—but because my treacherous imagination instantly supplied a montage of exactly what that would look like. Spoiler: it was equal parts horrifying and... let’s just say "professionally intriguing."
"Fair enough," I said lightly, masking the shiver that wanted to run down my spine. "But this time if you lose. You won’t just be letting me into your gang, you’ll give me a slice of your pie. A piece of your authority, a fraction of your men and enough resources to start my own branch in the trade."
That got him. His brows lifted a little, the smallest sign of genuine surprise before his expression melted back into that amused wolf’s smile. "Ambitious little parasite. Alright. You’ve got yourself a deal."
Just then, Baldy, as I liked to call him now—the same man who "warmed me up" earlier—trudged forward holding an ancient pack of cards and a handful of rusted chips. "Best we could find," he grunted, the words sounding like they’d been filed down to fit through his teeth.
The Boss waved it off. "Good enough."
Baldy started to shuffle, and that was when I raised a hand. "Wait."
The Boss arched an eyebrow. "Hm?"
"I want to inspect the cards. You’ve got a reputation now, and I’m not in the mood for surprise tricks anymore."
He chuckled low in his throat. "Smart boy." He gestured for Baldy to hand them over.
I took the deck and began flipping through each card one by one, holding them to the light, brushing my thumb across the edges. And yes, perhaps—"purely by coincidence," of course—every few cards I’d flick my finger lightly across my own chest, tracing the line of my collarbone, or "accidentally" drop a card so I had to bend down and retrieve it, letting my body shift just enough to keep the room’s attention exactly where I wanted it, brushing my thigh just a bit as I did so.
The Boss watched with an intensity that made the air feel thicker, but he didn’t comment. To him, I was just playing harmless little head games. And maybe I was. Or maybe I was just getting started.
I handed the deck back with a dramatic sigh, the kind that implied I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift inspecting gemstones for flaws. The Boss took it from me, tilting his head. "Find anything?" he asked, his tone dripping with that patronizing curiosity people reserve for toddlers and drunken nobles.
I shook my head slowly, making sure my hair fell just enough over my eyes to hide the glint in them. "Nothing," I said, letting the word hang between us like an unattended noose.
"Good," he said, his grin returning in full force. "Then let’s get this over with." And just like that, the table became our battlefield.
The first hand was a massacre. Not the fun kind either—the kind where you know you’re about to lose halfway through but have to watch the train hit you anyway. The Boss collected the pot with the smug flourish of a man who’d just plucked a gold tooth from the mouth of a sleeping beggar.
The second hand? Worse. I folded early, "accidentally" letting my cards fan out just enough for the nearest thug to see I had nothing. The men howled with laughter like it was the cleverest thing they’d seen since someone learned to light farts on fire.
By the third hand, I’d lost another chunk of chips, and the Boss was leaning back in his chair, playing to the crowd like he was the ringmaster of some particularly depraved circus. "You call this a challenge?" he barked to his men. "I’ve seen drunkards with better luck!"
Inside, I was already having to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Let him think I was spiraling, let him bask in the idea that he’d already won. Because the truth was... I had a plan. A plan so completely, irredeemably stupid that no sane person would even imagine it, let alone try it. Which was perfect—because sanity had never been my strong suit.
So I kept fumbling.
Deliberately bluffing into obvious traps, folding too soon, pretending I’d miscounted my chips. Anything to make him comfortable, overconfident.
Then, without warning, I won a hand. Just one. Casually. As though it was an accident, a fluke in the grand comedy of my demise.
The Boss twitched—just barely, but I caught it. That microscopic shift in his jawline. His eyes flicked to the cards, then to me, as if he’d just seen a shadow in the corner of his vision and wasn’t sure if it was real.
The game stretched on, chips sliding back and forth between us in a perfect, deliberate balance. Win, lose, win, lose—never enough to tip the scale, just enough to keep it even, like I was walking him on a leash he didn’t know was there.
By the fifth hand of this little back-and-forth, his grin had soured into a thin line. By the seventh, his fingers had started drumming on the table, little bursts of irritation breaking through the cracks. By the ninth, I could see the faint muscle tick in his cheek—Gods, it was beautiful.
I smiled softly, tilting my head just so. "Something wrong?" I purred.
He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
That was when I started leaning in—metaphorically and literally. Drawing out each glance, dragging my fingertips over my lips when I folded, stretching like a cat when I raked in a modest pile of chips. By the time we hit the final rounds, he was cracking. The man who’d been basking in easy victory fifteen minutes ago now looked like he wanted to strangle the air out of me and the cards both.
Then, it happened—my switch. The leash tightened. And suddenly, the Boss was staring at a dangerously low stack of chips, the kind of pitiful pile that made grown men reconsider their life choices.
The next hand would decide it. Winner takes all.
I could feel my grin spreading before I could stop it—sharp, stupid, and entirely too self-satisfied. And then, without ceremony, I slid my entire stack forward.
"All in."
The room reacted like I’d just announced I was marrying the Warden’s pet himself. Men jerked back from the table, chairs scraping, chips spilling. Someone actually gasped. Even Brutus straightened from where he was leaning, eyes narrowing in a way that made my stomach do an unpleasant flip.
The Boss froze for half a second, eyes narrowing, before that greedy little flame lit in the back of them. He was sweating now—just barely—but it was there. And behind it, that feral glint of a man who’d rather risk losing everything than walk away with less than he wanted.
"You little bastard," he growled, the words low and hot. "You think you can—"
"I think," I cut in sweetly, "that you should make your move before all that bluster deflates something important."
For a moment, I thought he might actually leap across the table and throttle me. But instead, he sat—slowly, deliberately—and shoved his own stack forward.
"All in," he said, his voice clipped.
And then, in one smooth, unblinking motion, we flipped our cards.