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.”