chapter six — Game.
1484 Words
Nigel’s POV
Palacito — My Office
“These are everything I could gather on her,” Luke said, dropping a folder onto my desk.
Inside—grainy snapshots of her life. A cramped apartment. The downtown café where she worked morning shifts. The corner store she stopped at every Thursday. Even her father’s weary face at the pharmacy.
The threads of her existence, all laid bare before me.
Gabriella.
Her name tasted like both poison and prayer on my tongue.
“She’s twenty-two,” Luke continued. “Dropped out of high school. Her father was scammed out of millions, buried in debt. Her mother ran off with some rich bastard.”
“So she was a nepo baby once,” I said.
“Seven years ago, yeah.”
I leaned back, letting the thought sink in. A fall from grace. A girl stripped of privilege and forced to crawl. Interesting.
Luke hesitated, then cleared his throat. “There’s more.”
“Spit it out.”
“She works at one of your clubs.”
My gaze sharpened. “Which one?”
“Angels. Night shifts. Been there two years.”
So she did belong to my world after all.
“She’s actually on shift tonight—” Luke’s words were cut short by a knock. Vato stepped in, grinning like a wolf.
“Prince, the Colombian bastards are taken care of. Just like you asked.” His grin stretched wider. He enjoyed that kind of work—especially when it ended in blood.
“Get the car ready,” I said, rising and fastening my jacket.
“Where are you headed?” Vato asked.
“Angels.”
Downtown — Angels Club
The bass thumped low, verberating through my bones. My club. One of the city’s largest pleasure dens, where temptation and sin kissed under dim light. Velvet booths lined the walls, gold-dipped railings gleamed, chandeliers dripped like fallen stars. Bodies moved on the dance floor, slick with sweat and desire.
Angels wasn’t just a club. It was a cathedral of sin.
And it was Housing something of mine.
“If it isn’t the unholiness himself,” Mario greeted with a nervous laugh. Late forties, loyal, and in charge of this place.
“What brings you? You never come unannounced—did something happen?” His words stumbled, uneasy.
“He owns the club,” Vato drawled. “What, you think he needs your permission to walk in?”
“Is there a problem, Mario?” My voice sliced the air.
Mario broke into a sweat. “Of course not! I just—if I’d had notice, I’d have made proper arrangements to welcome you.”
“Relax,” Vato said, clapping his shoulder. “We’re just messing with you.”
Mario chuckled weakly and hurried us into the VIP lounge.
“Shall I send in some girls for you, Prince? Our best—”
Luke leaned in, whispered something. Mario turned paled.
“Prince… I’m sorry, but she’s a bartender. Not a host. She doesn’t… entertain.”
“Mario, the Prince doesn’t like repeating himself,” Luke warned.
Mario sagged his shoulders in defeat. “I’ll send her right away.”
Vato lounged back with a drink. “Someone explain to me—who the hell are we waiting for?”
The door opened and Lora strolled in.
“Well, well. Look at this. The Prince is in Angels. What a rare treat.” She slid into a seat without invitation.
“What are you doing here?” Luke snapped.
“I heard whispers. Had to see for myself. Unless Mario screwed up, your visit is… unusual.” Her eyes flicked to me.
“That’s none of your concern,” I said flatly.
“Relax, Lora. He’s not here for your sugar daddy,” Vato smirked.
“Screw you, Vato.”
“You’d choke if you knew who I was screwing.” He blew smoke her way.
She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like cheap gasoline.”
“Better than smelling like the old men you crawl into bed with.”
They leaned forward, ready to rip each others throats out.
“Enough.” My voice was low and final. “Out.”
They walked off, still bickering.
“You too, Luke.” He gave a small nod and followed.
Minutes later, she walked in.
Gabriella.
Tray in hand. Eyes blazing the instant they met mine.
Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, strands falling free around her face. Her black top clung to her curves, neckline low enough to tease. Fitted pants hugged her hips like a second skin. She was temptation disguised as defiance.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, setting down a glass. “What is this? Some rich man’s revenge? I dent your shiny toy, so now you show up at my job to humiliate me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said lazily. “Revenge is the last thing I’d want from you.”
“Then what do you want?”
“That depends on what you’re willing to offer.”
“You,” she snapped, like it was an accusation.
“Me,” I echoed, lips curving.
“Do you enjoy paying women to stroke your ego?”
I laughed, low and dark. “I don’t need to pay for that. They do it willingly.” My gaze lingered on her lips until she noticed.
“I’m only here because my boss told me to,” she said sharply. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I poured wine slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving hers. “Then sit. Drink with me.”
“I’m not here to entertain you.”
“You already are.”
She hesitated, then perched on the farthest edge of the booth. Smart girl.
Her glare was sharp enough to cut, but the fire in it stirred something in me.
“So.” Her smile was brittle, forced. “What does the guest want to do?”
“Anything the host suggests.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Cards.”
I smirked, pulling out a wad of cash. “Let’s make it interesting. Every round you win, twenty dollars. Lose, and you get nothing.”
Her eyes lit up—exactly as I wanted.
“I’m not very good at cards, so… go easy on me,” she said sweetly. A lie. Luke had told me she was a master at playing cards.
Five rounds later, she’d taken a hundred off me.
“You’re too good. Almost feels like I’m being scammed,” I teased.
“I’m not good—you just suck,” she shot back, grinning as she pocketed the bills. “Besides, it’s not like losing a few dollars will bankrupt you.”
Her smile was wicked. My pulse quicked.
I leaned in, voice dropping to a purr. “Careful, Gabriella. Keep playing like that, and I might decide I want more than my money back.”
Her gaze locked on mine. Fire and fear tangled together.
“Please don’t say my name,” she whispered. “Hearing it from you makes it feel… cursed.”
“What a cruel thing to say to your guest. If it helps, you can call me by mine. Its Nigel. I don’t mind, dove.”
Her glare could cut glass. “The rich boy likes to flirt, doesn’t he?” Sarcasm dripped from her tone. “How about a few more rounds then?”
“You’re on a mission to bleed me dry,” I smirked.
“What, scared you’ll lose all your money?” she teased.
Her fingers brushed mine as she dealt the next round. Warm. Defiant. It wasn’t just a game anymore—it was war. Her smirk dared me to lose control.
“You’re awfully quiet,” she teased, eyes glinting. “What’s wrong, rich boy? Not used to being toyed with?”
I let the silence stretch, swirling my glass. “Careful, Gabriella. I bite back.”
“Promises, promises,” she murmured, collecting her winnings. The bills vanished into her pocket. That smile—sharp as a blade—never wavered.
The next hand played out fast. She beat me again. And again. My pile shrank while hers grew. She didn’t gloat in words. Only with the curl of her lips, the spark in her eyes.
Finally, she leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping low enough to curl like smoke. “You know what’s funny?”
I arched a brow. “Enlighten me.”
She slid the last card face-up between us—a perfect hand. My loss. Undeniable.
But she didn’t reach for the money.
Instead, she leaned in close, perfume cutting through the haze of liquor and smoke. Her lips curved, soft and wicked all at once.
“It seems…” she whispered, “…your ego isn’t worth stroking.”
- Writer
