Sasha leaned back in her velvet chair, the silk of her emerald slip dress sliding against her skin. She toyed with a single black chip, spinning it on the table with a flick of her wrist. Across from her, Romanov sat motionless. He looked less like a man and more like a monument carved from Siberian granite. His tailored navy suit hugged shoulders that seemed wide enough to carry the weight of the city, and his grey eyes remained fixed on her, devoid of emotion.
"The bet stands, Sasha," Romanov said. His voice was a low rumble, a tectonic shift that vibrated in the center of her chest. "Five million. All in."
Sasha glanced at her cards. A pair of kings. A strong hand, but the way Romanov held his chips—perfectly still, a wall of plastic fortifications—told her he wasn't bluffing. She fel
