The Black Table was located in the basement of a decommissioned cathedral, where the smell of incense still lingered, clashing with the scent of high-end perfume and desperation. The players were the elite—politicians, arms dealers, and ghosts.
Romanov sat at the center of the action, a mountain of black chips before him. Sasha sat beside him, draped in a dress of crimson silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. The neckline plunged dangerously low, and the slit ran up to her mid-thigh.
"The raise is two million," a man across the table said. He was thin, with a pinched face and eyes that darted nervously. "I call."
Romanov didn't look at his cards. He was looking at Sasha.
Sasha leaned in, her voice a mere breath against his ear. "You're playing too conservatively, Romanov. W
