You can feel him before you see him.

That lazy confidence, the scent of smoke and something unholy trailing behind him as he steps through the velvet-curtained entrance like he owns the room—or doesn’t care who does. Your eyes flick up from your wine glass for just a second. And there he is.

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore.

All dark suit, broad shoulders, and that mouth that looks like it stays getting him into trouble. He shouldn’t be here. Not tonight. Not in this speakeasy. Not in your orbit.

Not when your husband’s only a few feet away.

Luca’s hand brushes your shoulder as he stands from the poker table. “I’ll be five minutes,” he says, smoothing his lapel. “Don’t get into trouble.”

You offer him a smile—polished, empty, appropriate.

He disappears into the back hallway, a shadow swallowed by deeper ones.

You barely have time to exhale before another fills his place.

Stack slides into the chair beside you without asking. Doesn't speak right away. He just sits, bold as sin, like it’s a seat he was born to claim. His presence spreads through your skin like whiskey in your veins.

“Guess I picked the right table,” he finally says. You don’t look at him. Not fully. But your lip curves—just enough for him to notice.

“It’s your funeral,” you murmur, shifting your cards. “Luca doesn’t like men touching his things.” “Then he should keep a better eye on them.” It shouldn’t make you smile, but it does. Dangerous men make dangerous mistakes. And Stack? He’s shaping up to be both.

The dealer nods. The next hand begins.

You toss in your chips with ease, practiced elegance. He watches you with something closer to awe than caution. And that? That’s his first mistake.

“You always this bold with married women?” you ask without looking at him. “Only the dangerous ones,” he says, voice low and close. “You got that look… like you bite back.” You inhale slowly, the smoke from your cigarette curling up toward the chandelier.

“You talk too much.” “That so?” he murmurs. “Then why ain’t you walked away yet?” You don’t answer. Not with words.

The cards come down—yours, then his. He lays a straight flush. You beat him with four of a kind.

He stares at the cards like they betrayed him.

You lean in, just enough for your perfume to coat the air between you.

“Lesson one, Mr. Moore,” you purr. “Don’t play games you’re not prepared to lose.” You gather your chips slowly, letting your fingers drag across the felt. You know he’s watching. You know he’s wondering how deep this goes. You know he’ll never be able to help himself now.

You stand, smooth the satin over your hips, and bend toward him. Not much—just enough. Just enough for your breath to ghost over his jaw, your voice tucked behind your smile:

“Tell Smoke I said hi. And Stack…” His eyes lift to meet yours, darker than sin, and hotter than anything that should exist in a room this cold.

“Next time you wanna flirt with the devil…” “Bring holy water.” And then you walk away.

You don’t look back, even though you can feel him—still in that chair, still watching you like he’s already halfway in love with the mistake you’d make of him.

Let him burn.

You didn’t ask him to play with fire.