The air in the grand salon of The Obsidian was thick with the scent of aged cognac and the underlying tension of men who gambled with lives as easily as they did with chips. Crystal chandeliers swayed gently with the motion of the sea, casting fractured light over the emerald silk of Isabella’s gown.

"The stakes are a bit pedestrian tonight, don't you think, Count Orsini?" Valerio asked, leaning back in his velvet chair. He toyed with a high-value chip, his eyes never leaving Arjun’s.