Claimed by the ruthless Mafia king

[Emma]

“I win.”

I grinned as I flipped my cards next to my father's while another small pot slid my way. My dad’s shoulders slumped in that exaggerated way he does when he’s pretending to be crushed.

“You should be grateful I let you win,” he said, forcing a smile. I rolled my eyes but said nothing.

“How do you even do it?” he asked, though we both knew the answer.

“Easy. I assume you’ve got the nuts every time, so I play tighter.” I shrugged. He used to crush me at this table. But that was before the debts piled up, and he became so easily distracted, and often absentminded.

I wished I could fix it. I wished poker winnings were real money instead of backyard bragging rights.

He stared past the cards, his forehead creased in that permanent worry line. I hated how often I saw it now.

“Come on, one more,” I teased, nudging the deck. “Let me humiliate you properly before the day’s over.”

That got a real laugh out of him, small but genuine. Pride flickered behind the fake pout. “Can’t believe you beat me with the same tricks I taught you.”

“I refined them a little.” I started shuffling. Then, half-joking, half-hoping, I said without warning, “Maybe I should take on Zack. Clean him out, and pay everything off.”

The name landed like ice. For a few seconds, dad froze. When he broke out, his eyes darted to the locked gate, then back to me. Quick, sharp, like someone might be listening or lurking even in our fenced yard.

“Don’t.” His voice dropped low, urgent. “Never say that name. Not here. Not ever.”

His knuckles went white on the table edge. Breathing uneven. I saw the fear raw for a second before he tried to hide it.

“Sorry,” I muttered. Not because I meant it, but because it always calmed him down.

He studied me, eyes searching. “I don’t want you anywhere near that… that monster. I’ll find a way. A way that keeps you out of it.”

I looked down at the cards instead of answering.

He reached out like he might touch my cheek, then let his hand fall. “I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“How about one more round?” he said, voice lighter now, trying to pull us back. “I’ll even let you win.”

I snorted. “We both know you can’t help yourself.”

While I dealt, I tried again, extra careful this time. “I read about the Milan Poker Championship.”

He sighed, heavy. “Emma…”

“Only Milan college students can enter, right? So if I—”

“We’ve been over this.” His tone turned gentle, almost pleading. “Here in Rome, girls don’t go past high school. Milan’s different, sure. More open. But it’s not our world.”

“Milan is not just different. It is…receptive.” My voice was low, as if in prayer.

His gaze flicked to the gate again. “With what I owe… if I run, they would hunt me like a rogue animal. You know that.”

My throat tightened. I looked away so he wouldn’t see my eyes sting.

“I’ll fix it,” he said quietly. “Then maybe… we would move, not to Milan but somewhere as quiet.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. Relief washed through me, although thin.

The cards sat dealt between us. He barely glanced at his hole cards before sliding one back, distracted. We shook hands like always. Our little ritual. His grip lingered, tight, almost desperate, before he let go.

“Let’s see if you can beat me this time,” I said, trying for light. It came out thin.

He played poorly, mind elsewhere. I won fast. “Got you again,” I said, softer this time.

A hard knock rattled the gate before he could say anything. Not polite.

His face drained. Friday.

“I have to go.” His voice trembled just enough to notice.

He grabbed his keys, and stood up quickly. I shut my eyes for a second, just before but he pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

“I'll be back as soon as I can. Don’t bother to wait up.”

“Try not to bet,” I called after him. We both knew it was pointless. He had no choice at all.

He pulled the gate open. Through the gap I caught the man waiting. Black suit, dark shades, gun slung under his arm like it weighed nothing. Face carved from stone.

Dad looked back once. He flashed a fake smile at me then stepped through before pulling the gate shut.

I watched the shadows swallow him. The man’s hand closed on Dad’s elbow, not friendly. A firm pull. Dad didn’t resist. He didn’t look back this time.

A shiver crawled down my spine. For the first time, the thought that he might walk out that gate one Friday and never walk back in hit me, and felt real.