Page 17 of Forged

A black rose. Stem clipped short. One thorn left intact.

She places it near his throat with what would look like reverence if I didn’t know better. If I didn’t remember what Veleno has turned her into.

She glances around the alley—eyes quickly sweeping, checking corners and shadows. She turns to leave, but before she leaves the view of the camera, she pauses.

Slowly, her gaze lifts, right to the lens.Her smirk is mocking and dangerous.

Then she digs into her back pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper. She unfolds it and holds it up. Five words, scrawled in bold black ink:

Can you see me, Marchetti?

My pulse spikes.

She raises her free hand—and flips off the camera.

Then she bolts out of frame, fast enough that the camera barely catches the tail of her jacket. The footage ends.

I sit back, jaw tight, coffee forgotten.

She’s getting bolder. Sloppy, suicidal, maybe. Or maybe she wants me to know exactly where she is and exactly what she’s willing to do.

Between Falco, Maravilla, and Sera hunting her own war…This city is becoming a fuse. And I’m the one sent to keep it from being lit.

I tearthrough the collection of clothes I travel with. Silk and denim end up draped over the chair, black lace tossed across the bed, gold chains tangled together. Shoes are scattered on the floor—evidence of a woman who usually arrives prepared, focused, unshaken.

Right now, I feel none of those things.

I try on three tops in quick succession, tugging each one on, then off again, until frustration wins and I throw them all onto the bed. I stand there in my bra, breathing hard, staring at my reflection

I need to get my shit together.

This is poker night. My night, my profession and income. My kingdom.

And yet here I am, thinking about a man instead of the damn cards.

I swear under my breath and take the clip out of my hair, letting it fall in waves down my back. I need to pull off the appearance of a woman who plays everything close to thechest—including the dirty thoughts of a man I let into my hotel room to ruin my sheets and, apparently, my sanity.

“Focus, Neomi,” I mutter at my reflection.

I play high stakes because I play to make money. I don’t like to play small—I read, I dissect, I calculate. Focus is everything. And I need it back tonight, because fifty-grand pots don’t care if I spent the night underneath a man with a gorgeous dick and a mouth that dismantled every rational thought I’ve had since.

I pull on black tailored trousers. Clean lines with the flow of expensive fabric. A silhouette that says I’m here to take your money, not flirt with you. Then a simple light pink top with a plunging neckline.

I secure my holster around my waist and grab my gun. I won’t need it at the table, but Austin is becoming unpredictable. I carry cash and I refuse to be at the losing end of any fight.

I smooth my top over my chest, inhale, and lock eyes with myself in the mirror.

“Cards first. Men second.”

The room is alreadyalive when I slide into my seat. The overhead lights are dim, the felt of every table is worn smooth by greed and ego, and the air smells of whiskey, bravado, and desperation.

Cards shuffle as chips clack and men posture. I’m in my zone. Or…I should be.

Because the second the door opens, there’s a ripple in the room, and I know it’s him.

I don’t acknowledge him when he appears, instead, I focus on finishing organizing my stacks. I make myself maintain the calm, collected posture of a woman who isn’t currently fighting the urge to cross her damn legs.

Lars walks in like he owns the place. Like he owns the air. He doesn’t look as casual as he did the last time I saw him. Tonight,he’s in charcoal grey pants and a red dress shirt, buttons open just enough to tease the skin of his chest. With perfectly styled brown hair, his blue eyes, like sharpened ice, sweeps the room once before landing directly on me.