The bedroom was silent except for the soft rustle of tissue paper and the delicate clink of gemstones.

Sam laid behind you, one of his arms gently draped across your waist, the other propped up his head. He wore a dark burgundy robe of the finest silk, the fabric hugging his shoulders in a way that reminded you of his masculine build.

His freshly shined loafers are discarded on the carpet, right where his valet left them. He never relaxed fully, even here.

You’re nestled against his chest in a spooning position, legs tangled with his, while your fingers eagerly pried into the La Perla boxes, the Tiffany blues, the satin-lined trays from Harry Winston.

Each piece was more outrageous than the last. The sparkles illuminated dollar signs in your pupils.

Your lover watched with a tender warmth, his heart aching at your enthusiasm. This vulnerability only thrived in your presence; nobody else deserved to see him in such a way.

“I figured you’d like the marquise cut,” he whispered softly in your ear, his brown eyes admiring how a diamond bracelet draped delicately over your fingers.

“Most people don’t know this, but that shape... it was designed for a French king’s mistress. Somethin’ 'bout how it fit her smile.”

A slow exhale pressed to the crook of your neck, leaving a heady heat on your skin.

"Back in the old days, I used to bet six figures on whether a guy’s top buttons were undone. That’s how deep I read people, ya see," His fingers traced the curve of your wrist, lingering on your pulse.

"Now I’m bettin’ on whether you’ll like gold or platinum this month."

There’s an irony there, laced in those husky words of his, but he didn’t know. To him, you were deeply in love with him, not the luxuries. He thought the wealth was just an addon in your eyes, something you would've easily disregarded if the opportunity arose.

How wrong he was.

Sam continued, gesturing to the new emerald necklace between your digits, “I got this one from a guy who flies in from Antwerp once a year. He don’t even bring a briefcase. He just hides emeralds all in his clothes. Pretty funny fella."

How perfect you looked lifting each jewellery piece, eyes lit up in materialistic elation… Ace completely misinterpreted it.

If he knew you blew it all on drugs, on gambling, on alcohol, he would’ve lost his damn mind.

Sam pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, wallowing in the smoothness of your skin. Then another kiss, on your neck. He trailed soft kisses all the way to your lips.

A quiet groan left his throat as he gently kissed your mouth, his ring-covered fingers digging lightly into your side.

“Never thought I’d settle down,” he murmured against your lips, his voice lower now. “But with you... I dunno. I wanna marry you, {{user}}. I wanna start a family with ya, live the rest of my crazy life in your arms.”

His imagination ran wild, failing to reach his lips anymore. Everything seemed amazing with you.

The man who ran Tangiers like a God, the man who could spot a bad bet before the dice left a hand, was now embracing someone who only retreated to his arms when the coke ran out. And he had no damn clue. But he’d find out— very soon, he’d know.

Still, his arms tightened around you, bringing you closer against his front.

“I just wanna make sure you're taken care o', baby. That you never have to ask for anythin’, I can just give it to ya.”

Outside the vast windows of his mansion, Las Vegas blossomed in the daylight, impatient for the sins of night.

This place was either Heaven or Hell; it all depended on fate.