His Trophy His War

The Wife on the Table

Livia sat stiffly behind Dante, her hands folded in her lap, her face a blank mask. The poker den reeked of cigars and whiskey, the air thick with men’s laughter and clinking chips. She kept her eyes down, avoiding the leers from the players around the table. Dante’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and slurred.

“Check out my wife, boys,” he said, tossing a chip into the pot. “Best decoration I ever bought. Quiet, too. Perfect.”

The men chuckled, their eyes flicking to Livia. She bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing the urge to snap back. Three years of marriage had taught her silence was safer. Dante loved humiliating her in front of his cronies, and tonight was no different.

“Got a sister, sweetheart?” one player asked, grinning.

“Nah, one’s enough,” Dante said, leaning back. “She don’t talk much, but she’s easy on the eyes. Right, Liv?”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened in her lap.

“Raise,” a new voice said, low and steady. Livia glanced up, just for a second. The man across the table hadn’t spoken much all night. Alessandro Moretti. Even in this dim, smoky room, he stood out—dark suit sharp, eyes sharper. Everyone knew his name. Crime lord. Kingmaker. The kind of man who didn’t need to brag.

Dante snorted. “Feeling bold, Moretti? Alright, I’ll bite. Five grand.”

The game dragged on, chips piling up, tension spiking. Dante was losing, bad. Livia could tell from the way he kept wiping his brow, his laughs getting louder, faker. He was in deep with these men, deeper than he’d ever admit. Her father’s debts had chained her to him, and now his own were drowning them both.

“Ten grand,” Alessandro said, sliding chips forward without a blink.

Dante cursed under his breath, glancing at his cards. “You’re bluffing.”

“Call it,” Alessandro said, voice like ice.

The other players folded, sensing the storm. Dante’s jaw ticked. He was out of chips, out of cash. Livia’s stomach twisted. She knew that look—he was desperate.

“Come on, Dante,” a player taunted. “You in or out?”

Dante laughed, but it was forced. “Hell, I’m in. I’ll throw in something better than cash.” He jerked his thumb at Livia. “Take the wife if I lose.”

The room erupted in laughter. Livia’s face burned, but she kept still. He’d done this before—joked about her like she was nothing. It was just talk. Right?

“Funny,” Alessandro said, but he wasn’t smiling. “You’d bet her?”

“Why not?” Dante shrugged, grinning. “She’s got no use sitting there. Call.”

Livia’s heart thudded. She stared at Dante, waiting for him to laugh it off, to say he was kidding. He didn’t. He just leaned forward, eyes on the table.

The dealer flipped the final card. “Moretti wins.”

The room went quiet. Dante’s grin froze. “What?”

Alessandro stood, buttoning his jacket. “I envy your wisdom,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence. “She’s mine now.”

Livia’s breath caught. She looked at Dante, expecting him to jump up, to curse, to fight. He just sat there, mouth open, like a fish gasping for air.

“You can’t be serious,” Dante stammered. “It was a joke, man. A joke.”

Alessandro didn’t look at him. His eyes locked on Livia, dark and unreadable. “Mrs. Moretti,” he said, nodding to two men by the door. “Let’s go.”

The men stepped forward, their faces blank but their presence heavy. Livia’s legs felt like lead, but she stood, her hands trembling. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

“Dante,” she said, her voice low, shaking. “Say something.”

He laughed, nervous, glancing at the crowd. “Come on, Liv, sit down. He’s messing with us.”

Alessandro’s men didn’t stop. One gestured toward the door. “Ma’am.”

Livia’s eyes darted to Alessandro. He hadn’t moved, just watched her, like he was waiting to see what she’d do. She wanted to scream, to run, but the room was closing in, every eye on her.

“Dante,” she said again, sharper.

He waved her off, still laughing. “Relax, babe. It’s fine.”

Alessandro tilted his head. “You heard him. He’s fine with it.” He turned to his men. “Escort her out.”

The men flanked her, not touching but close enough to make it clear she had no choice. Livia’s pulse roared in her ears as they guided her through the crowd. Whispers followed—shock, amusement, pity. She kept her chin up, refusing to let them see her crack.

At the door, she glanced back. Dante was still at the table, laughing, but it was high-pitched, panicked. He caught her eye, and for a second, she thought he’d stand, fight for her. Instead, he grabbed his drink, downing it in one gulp.

The door closed behind her. Alessandro’s men led her to a black SUV waiting outside. The Milan night was cool, but Livia felt like she was burning. One of the men opened the car door.

“Please, Ma’am,” he said.

She hesitated, her mind racing. Run? Scream? But where would she go? Her father was gone, her family broke. Dante had been her cage for years, and now—what? A new one?

“Mrs. Moretti,” the man said again, firmer.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, but she slid into the backseat. The door shut with a heavy thud.

The SUV pulled away, the poker den fading behind her. Livia stared out the window, her hands clenched in her lap. Alessandro’s words echoed in her head: She’s mine now. Not a joke, not a game. Real.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out, hands shaking. A text from Dante.

You’ll be fine, Liv. He’s just flexing. Come home tomorrow.

She stared at the screen, her chest tight. Tomorrow? He thought she’d just walk back after this? After he bet her?

Another buzz. Unknown number.

Sleep well, Livia. We’ll talk tomorrow. – A.M.

Her blood ran cold. Alessandro. How did he have her number? What did he want? She deleted the text, her fingers trembling, but it didn’t erase the truth.

She wasn’t Dante’s anymore. She was Alessandro Moretti’s. And men like him didn’t let go of what they won.

The SUV turned toward the city’s glittering skyline, and Livia’s heart pounded like a war drum. Whatever came next, she wouldn’t go quietly. Not again.