He knew her name.
The words landed in her chest like a second blade — cold, going deeper than they had any right to. Raven's heart hammered so loud she barely heard the music anymore. The knife stayed pressed tight under Vincent's jaw — so fucking solid — blood beading along the edge and sliding down his throat to soak into his white collar. He didn't flinch. Didn't try to pull away. Just sat there like the knife was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Her palms were damp. The blood from the hallway guards already stained her dress, sticky against her thigh. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to finish it — slice deep, step back, run. She couldn't. Not yet.
The dealer stood frozen across the table, eyes darting between them, waiting for the room 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 man even leaving his stacks behind, and not a single person asked a question or raised their voice. No panic. Like the whole casino had quietly rehearsed this exact moment and been waiting for the cue.
Raven's stomach turned. Too smooth. Way too smooth.
She kept the blade exactly where it was and didn't look at the exits. Didn't shift her weight. Showing weakness now would get her killed.
Vincent reached forward anyway, slow and unhurried, and gathered the remaining cards. He turned one over, a king, and 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."
His mouth twitched into something close to 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, patient and calculated, like he was enjoying the temperature rising.
Vincent leaned back a fraction. The blade followed. More blood. He didn't even blink.
"You cleared two guards in the service corridor," he said. "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 lined the edges watching, not her but him, waiting for a single word from their boss. Raven's free hand trembled once before she locked it down. Sweat trickled down her spine and the sticky fabric of her dress clung to her skin, a constant reminder of everything that had already gone wrong tonight.
"You've already mapped every exit," he continued. "Service corridor. Balcony stairs. East doors."
She didn't answer.
"You won't take them," he said. "Not yet."
"You're assuming a lot."
"No. I'm watching patterns." His gaze dropped to her hand on the knife, then came back up, unhurried. "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. "You hesitated on the first strike. He moved. You adjusted. Clean recovery."
Cold crashed through her chest, suffocating and immediate, and her next breath came out wrong.
"You're guessing," she said.
Vincent didn't smile this time. "He moved unexpectedly. You finished it."
No one outside the family knew those details. No one. Her mind spun through the possibilities: informants, surveillance, someone who'd been in the room. She came up empty every time. Isabella's voice cut through the noise, sharp and familiar. Trust no one, leave nothing behind. Yet here he was, handing her own life back to her piece by piece like he'd been holding it for her.
She wanted to drive the knife home. Wanted to watch him bleed out on his perfect casino floor. Her hand wouldn't move.
Vincent leaned forward a fraction more, changing the angle of the blade, and his breath brushed warm against her wrist. Too close.
"They sent you to kill me," he said. "Simple job. Clean exit."
"Yeah. They did."
He nodded once. "They also made sure I knew."
The words landed like a punch. Raven's stomach dropped, the knife wavering for half a second before she caught it.
"They needed a reason," Vincent continued, voice low and steady. "Something loud. Something that forces a response."
"For what?"
Her throat felt tight.
"War."
The single word hung between them. It settled somewhere deeper than thought — in her chest, in her feet, in the way her whole body locked up before she could stop it. The dress was too tight. The carpet too solid under her feet. Blood from his throat had dripped onto her fingers, warm and sticky and real, and the full shape of it hit her all at once.
They used her. Set her up. Sent her in to die, or to start something much bigger than her.
Vincent reached for the deck again. Drew one card and slid it across the felt toward her, face down.
"You're good at what you do," he said, eyes never leaving hers. "That's why they chose you." A beat. "And why they can afford to lose you."
Raven stared at the card. Blood roared in her ears, each beat a hammer strike that wouldn't slow, wouldn't quiet down enough to let her think straight. She reached out with trembling fingers, leftover adrenaline and fresh rage in equal measure, and flipped it over.
Queen of Hearts. Staring up at her again.
The blood on Vincent's throat had begun to dry, thin dark lines against his skin. He hadn't wiped it away, hadn't adjusted his collar, hadn't done anything to acknowledge it. 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. Dark 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 before she could shut it down.
The casino floor stayed dead silent around them, nothing left but guards watching from the edges and the low, indifferent hum of the lights overhead.
Raven's breath came short and uneven. She should kill him now, or she should run. Every instinct she'd spent years sharpening told her exactly that. Instead she stood there, knife steady against the throat of a man who wasn't bleeding the way he was supposed to, and felt everything she'd trained herself never to feel.
The Queen of Hearts lay between them on the felt.
Neither of them moved. Not yet.