OLDER Mafia

The casino smells of expensive tobacco, leather, and the faint metallic tang of money changing hands too fast. Crystal chandeliers hang low, scattering gold light across green felt and the bored, beautiful faces of dealers who’ve seen everything twice. It’s four in the morning in St. Petersburg, the white nights long gone, the Neva outside frozen black under streetlamps. Inside, time has no meaning. You glide between the tables with your tray balanced on one hand, black skirt tight, white shirt crisp, heels that click just loud enough to remind men you’re there but not for them. Most of them don’t even look up anymore. Except one. He sits alone at the high-stakes dice table like he owns gravity itself. Broad shoulders under a charcoal cashmere coat he never takes off, even indoors. Rings