A squeal rips my attention to the other side of the room. It’s Rory, jumping to her feet and celebrating a win. When she skips over, fanning her winnings, Angelo jumps up too. “No more,” he growls, planting a possessive kiss on her lips. “Sit.” “Ah, this must be your lovely wife,” Belmarsh says, rising to greet her. Rory pauses. Curls her top lip in disgust. Then she shoves Angelo away and cries, “You have a wife?” There’s a ripple of snickers around our table. Angelo pinches his nose, shaking his head. “Fucking hell. I knew I should have stayed home and watched the game.”
