The Mafia King's Deadly Wife

He knew her name.

The words sank under her ribs like a second blade. Cold. Deep.

Raven’s heart hammered so loud she barely heard the music anymore. The knife stayed pressed tight under Vincent’s jaw. Solid. So fucking solid. Blood beaded along the edge, bright red at first, then darker as it slid down his neck and soaked into his crisp white collar.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to pull away. Just sat there like the knife was nothing.

Her palms were damp. The same blood from the hallway guards still stained her dress, sticky against her thigh. Every muscle in her body screamed to finish it — slice deep, step back, run.

But she couldn’t. Not yet.

The dealer stood frozen across the table, eyes darting between them. Waiting for the world to decide which way it would break.

Vincent lifted two fingers. Tiny movement. Total command.

"Clear the table."

Chips vanished. Cards got scooped up. Players backed away fast, one guy even leaving his stacks behind. No questions. No panic. Like the whole casino had rehearsed this exact moment.

Raven’s stomach turned. Too smooth. Way too smooth.

She kept the blade exactly where it was. Didn’t look at the exits. Didn’t shift her weight. Showing weakness now would get her killed.

Vincent reached forward anyway. Slow. Deliberate. He gathered the remaining cards and turned one over.

A king.

He placed it neatly beside the others, like the game still mattered.

Raven pressed harder. Fresh blood welled up. Hot against her knuckles.

"You should keep it higher," he said, voice steady as stone. "Right now you’re riding the artery. Efficient... but messy."

"Shut up," she snapped. Low. Rough.

His mouth twitched — almost a smile. "If I wanted instruction, I would’ve picked a different target."

She wanted to claw the composure off his face. Every word out of his mouth was a match held to her nerves.

Vincent leaned back a fraction. The blade followed. More blood. He didn’t even blink.

"You cleared two guards in the service corridor," he continued. "Left first, then right. Always making space before you move in."

Her breath caught. How the fuck—

"You should’ve placed them better," she growled.

He gave a small shrug. "They were exactly where I wanted them."

The room felt smaller. Guards ringed the edges, watching. Not her — him. Waiting for one word from their boss.

Raven’s free hand trembled once before she locked it down. Sweat trickled down her spine. The sticky dress clung to her skin.

Vincent’s dark eyes locked on hers again. "You’ve already mapped every exit. Service corridor. Balcony stairs. East doors."

She didn’t answer.

"You won’t take them," he said quietly. "Not yet."

"You’re assuming a lot."

"No. I’m watching patterns." His gaze dropped to her hand on the knife, then back up. "You like confirmation before you pull out. Reduces mistakes."

Her fingers tightened so hard the handle dug into her palm.

"The Karsen job," he added softly. "You hesitated on the first strike. He moved. You adjusted. Clean recovery."

Ice flooded her chest. Heavy. Suffocating.

"You’re guessing," she whispered. But her voice cracked just a little.

Vincent didn’t smile this time. "He moved unexpectedly. You still finished it."

No one outside the family knew those details. No one.

Her mind spun. Isabella’s voice echoed in her head — trust no one, leave nothing behind. Yet here he was, handing her own life back to her piece by piece.

She wanted to drive the knife home. Wanted to watch him bleed out right there on his perfect casino floor.

But her hand wouldn’t move. Not yet.

Vincent leaned forward slightly, changing the angle of the blade. His breath brushed warm against her wrist. Too close. Way too close.

"They sent you to kill me," he said. "Simple job. Clean exit."

Her jaw locked so hard her teeth ached. "Yeah. They did."

He nodded once. "They also made sure I knew."

The words landed like a punch to the gut.

Raven’s stomach dropped. The knife wavered for half a second. She caught it.

"They needed a reason," Vincent continued, voice low and steady. "Something loud. Something that forces a response."

Her throat felt tight. "For what?"

"War."

The single word hung between them. Heavy. Final.

She felt it settle in her bones. The dress suddenly felt too tight. Her bare feet rooted to the carpet. Blood from his throat had dripped onto her fingers — warm, sticky, alive.

They used her. Set her up. Sent her in to die... or to start something bigger.

Vincent reached for the deck again. Drew one card. Slid it across the felt toward her. Face down.

"You’re very good at what you do," he said. "That’s why they chose you."

His eyes never left hers.

"And why they can afford to lose you."

Raven stared at the card. Blood roared in her ears. Each beat a hammer strike she couldn’t quiet.

She reached out slowly. Fingers still trembling with leftover adrenaline and fresh rage. She flipped it over.

Queen of Hearts.

Same card as before. Staring up at her like it knew something she didn’t.

The blood on Vincent’s throat had started to dry — thin dark lines against his skin. He still hadn’t wiped it away. Like it didn’t matter. Like none of this touched him.

She kept the knife right there. Not pressing deeper. Not pulling back.

Just... holding.

Vincent watched her. Not the blade. Not the card. Her.

Quiet interest burned in his eyes. The kind that made her skin prickle — hate and something dangerously close to want twisting together low in her belly.

The casino floor stayed dead silent around them. Only guards left. Still waiting.

Raven’s breath came short and uneven.

She should kill him right now.

She should run.

Instead, she stood there, knife steady against the man who wasn’t bleeding the way he was supposed to... and felt everything she’d trained for years to never feel.

The Queen of Hearts lay between them.

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.