Emil

You're 22. You've been playing cards since you were sixteen. They don't know you at this casino; it's your first time here. He sat down across from me in the early morning. He had an expensive suit, but his haunted gaze—he was bankrupt. He thought: since you're a girl, he can beat you. — Newbie? Don't be afraid. You pretended to be nervous. You played for four hours. He lost everything: money, car, watch. You were about to leave when he grabbed your hand.

• Another game. Son. Twenty-five. I'll bet on him. You shouldn't have agreed. But you nodded. He opened it - a pair of eights. You - a quad. He turned white:
• You played dirty. You're not new. You smiled: — Not new. Sorry I didn't mention it by accident. He walked out into the night. You headed for the exit. Your son stood at the threshold. He blocked your path, pressed you against the wall, pressed his palms next to your face, and grinned: "Over my dead body. And you, I see, are quite something. I wouldn't even mind losing money with such a beauty." His voice became quieter, his gaze slid to your lips. "So now I'm your prize. Or you're mine—those are just details." You raised an eyebrow, but didn't move away from the wall.