Chapter 8 - The House of Cards
The private VIP lounge of the Bellagio Club in downtown Manhattan was usually reserved for high-stakes poker games and quiet deals between untouchable men. Tonight, it served as a courtroom.
Nico sat at the center of a poker table, looking disheveled, unshaven, and furious. Beside him sat Dominic Vance, sweating nervously under the glare of three armed guards stationed by the door.
When the heavy double doors opened and Leo walked in—with me walking calmly by his side, wearing a sharp charcoal pantsuit and the sapphire ring gleaming on my finger—Nico leaped out of his chair.
“Dad! What is the meaning of this? Why are your thugs holding us here?” Nico shouted, pointing an accusing finger directly at me. “And why is she here? Are you parading your new gold-digger around my club now?”
“Shut your mouth, boy,” Leo’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing off the mirrored walls.
Leo walked forward, tossing a thick manila folder onto the center of the green felt poker table. It slid across the table and hit Dominic Vance squarely in the chest.
“Open it,” Leo ordered.
Dominic’s hands trembled as he untied the string and pulled out the printed bank statements, shell company registrations, and freight logs. Color drained completely from his face until he looked like a corpse.
“Boss... I can explain,” Dominic stammered, backing away. “Nico said—we were just expanding—”
“You were stealing from my family,” Leo interrupted coldly. He turned his dark gaze toward his son. “And you, Nico. You thought you were the smartest man in the room. You thought you could manipulate your father, launder syndicate funds through your friends, and play petty parlor games with innocent lives.”
Nico stared at the documents, his bravado instantly evaporating. “Dad... I didn't know Dominic was skimming that much! I swear! He handled the numbers!”
“You are a fool,” Leo said with absolute disgust. “You couldn't run a lemonade stand, let alone a syndicate. And you certainly didn't deserve a woman like Myra.”
I stepped forward, resting my hands on the edge of the poker table, looking down at my ex-boyfriend with profound, unyielding pity.
“You bet ten thousand dollars to ruin me, Nico,” I said softly. “Turns out, you priced yourself way too low. Because today, your father and I just liquidated your entire portfolio, seized your apartments, and cut you off from every single penny of the Casaro name.”
May you like
Nico screamed, lunging across the table, but before he could take two steps, two guards pinned him hard against the felt, pressing his face into the green cloth.
“Take them both to the northern warehouse,” Leo commanded without a shred of emotion. “Let them think about what it means to be broke, abandoned, and entirely alone.”
