The moment Corleone finished speaking, the old guard's raised hand froze in mid-air.
His eyes widened imperceptibly, then darkened with a flash of instinctive caution.
The man really was named Moss.
When Corleone had first been thrown into this cell, Captain Sven had casually called the old guard by name in front of him. At the time, it hadn't seemed like anything important. A name meant little in a dungeon filled with faceless men.
But that alone didn't explain the rest.
What truly frightened Moss was not that Corleone knew his name.
It was that he had known far more than that.
"Y-you…" Moss stared at him, his expression uncertain and defensive. "How do you know that?"
Corleone tilted his head slightly, his posture relaxed, his back resting against the cold, damp stone wall as though he were lounging in a comfortable chair rather than chained inside a dungeon cell.
"Your fingers," he said calmly.
Moss instinctively pulled his hand back, then hesitated, unsure what to do with it.
Corleone lifted his own hand slightly and mimicked a rolling motion with two fingers.
"The pads of your right index and middle fingers are stained a dull yellowish-brown."
Moss looked down at his own hand.
The stained color stood out clearly now that someone had pointed it out.
"That isn't ordinary dirt or rust," Corleone continued evenly. "It's the residue that forms when skin is rubbed against hard, smooth objects for long periods. Over and over. Night after night."
"The size, shape, and location of the marks are identical to what you get from rolling dice for extended periods."
Moss swallowed.
Without realizing it, he rubbed his fingers together.
Corleone's lips curved faintly.
"You confirmed it yourself just now."
The old guard's shoulders stiffened.
Corleone didn't stop.
"Your clothes," he went on.
Moss blinked.
"My… clothes?"
Corleone's eyes flicked over him with lazy precision.
"There is a patch of wear at both your elbows and wrists. Regular in shape. Symmetrical. That doesn't come from patrol duty."
"Those are pressure points caused by resting your arms against a hard wooden edge, like the rim of a gambling table."
Moss's neck reddened.
He glanced down at his sleeves and saw the worn fabric for the first time as if through someone else's eyes.
"And your buttons," Corleone added.
Moss stiffened again.
"The brass edges are scratched. Fresh marks. You pick at them when you're anxious."
Corleone met his gaze coolly.
"No experienced gambler fidgets like that. A man who knows what he's doing plays calmly. Controlled."
"But you?" Corleone shook his head faintly. "You've lost control completely."
Moss subconsciously reached for his collar, then froze halfway when he realized what he was doing.
Corleone watched the reaction without expression.
"And finally… your face."
Moss looked up sharply.
"My… face?"
Corleone studied him carefully, then shook his head slowly.
"Too dark."
Moss frowned and rubbed his cheek without thinking.
"What do you mean—"
"I don't mean dirt," Corleone interrupted mildly. "I mean your expression."
Moss stilled.
"Your eyes," Corleone said quietly, "are full of anger and bitterness. When you look at prisoners, it's as though you're staring at men who owe you money."
"There is hatred there. And desperation."
"You're not cruel by nature. You're afraid."
Moss opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Corleone continued gently, his voice containing neither ridicule nor sympathy.
"You need to win back what you lost. And you have no idea how."
"The frustration eats at you every hour of the day."
"You're angry because you're powerless."
The silence in the dungeon thickened.
Moss stood motionless, staring at Corleone as if he were looking at a ghost.
No.
Something worse.
A man who could peel away his skin with words alone.
"I…" Moss tried to speak, but no words came.
He had never imagined that a complete stranger could read him so clearly.
Never imagined that someone could expose every secret he carried in his chest so effortlessly.
It felt as if he were standing naked under torchlight.
Corleone leaned his head back against the wall and folded his arms loosely.
His posture was completely unguarded.
Relaxed.
Composed.
It was as though he weren't imprisoned… but merely visiting.
Watching the old guard's reaction, Corleone allowed himself a half-smile.
"Sit down," he said lightly. "You look as though you might faint."
Moss didn't sit, but he did stagger backward and brace himself against the bars.
"Sir… Your Excellency…" he muttered weakly.
The words came from somewhere deep and unconscious.
Reverence.
Fear.
Hope.
All tangled together.
"You said," Moss finally whispered, "you could help me win back my money."
Corleone eyed him thoughtfully.
"Yes."
Moss inhaled sharply.
"You… you weren't joking?"
Corleone smiled slightly.
"Luck has nothing to do with your problem, my friend."
"You're just playing a game designed for you to lose."
Moss's jaw tightened.
"Tell me everything," Corleone said. "Names. Place. Game."
Moss hesitated only a moment before the dam broke.
"It's… it's the Three Coppers casino," he admitted quietly. "In Flea Bottom alley."
"There's this new game they introduced—the Harvest Roulette. Big odds. Big wins."
"I played with a few regulars. The dealer always worked the table himself."
"At first, I won. Several rounds in a row. I thought maybe the Seven had finally smiled on me for once."
"But then things changed."
His voice trembled.
"It started landing on 'small.' Once. Twice. Then again."
"Seven times in a row," he whispered.
"Small. Small. Small."
"I lost everything I won… and then I lost my savings."
Moss closed his eyes.
"They haven't paid us in three months."
His lips shook.
"I don't know how I'm supposed to survive if it keeps going like this."
The words spilled out of him like blood from an opened vein.
Corleone listened without interrupting.
When Moss finished, Corleone was already smiling.
The kind of smile one wears when they've just solved a child's puzzle.
"They cheated you," Corleone said simply.
Moss jerked his head up.
"Cheated?!"
"We saw them roll!" he protested. "We watched with our own eyes! How could they cheat?"
"Dice are easy to swap," Corleone replied calmly. "Easier than you'd think."
Moss stared at him, disbelief heavy in his eyes.
"You think… that they used fake dice?"
"Lead-filled," Corleone said coolly.
"One heavier face creates a predictable outcome. Every roll becomes inevitable."
Moss's breathing turned uneven.
"They robbed you openly," Corleone added.
"And you thanked them for it."
His words struck like a whip.
Moss clenched his fists.
Then he did something unthinkable.
He dropped to one knee.
"Help me," he whispered hoarsely. "Please."
Corleone watched him in silence, then nodded slowly.
"Very well."
"I will make them pay."
"I will make them give everything back."
"But you," Corleone added, his tone sharpening slightly, "will do exactly as I say."
Moss raised his head.
"Yes," he breathed. "I swear it."
"Then fetch me what I am owed."
Corleone's eyes glinted.
"My steak."
"And my wine."
Moss shot to his feet as though electrified.
"At once, Your Excellency!"
And he ran.
---
Lake watched the entire exchange from the corner of the cell with wide-eyed disbelief.
What in the Seven Hells is going on?
He had seen guards beaten.
He had seen men bribed.
But never… never had he seen a prisoner command a guard.
Moss, the cruelest man on the rotation, the one who took enjoyment in every scream…
Looked like a dog who had found a new master.
A few moments later, Corleone's gaze shifted.
And locked onto Lake.
Lake's skin crawled.
Corleone studied him without speaking.
Lake sneered to hide his unease.
"I don't know how you tricked him," he scoffed, "but food won't save you."
"You'll rot just like the rest of us."
Corleone smiled.
"I like your spirit."
Lake bristled.
"Keep it," Corleone continued mildly. "You'll need it soon."
Lake frowned.
"What do you mean—"
But Corleone had already turned away.
And was walking toward another guard.
---
The air in Ser Adam Marbrand's office was suffocating.
Even the fireplace seemed afraid to breathe.
When the doors burst open and two Gold Cloaks dragged Rorger inside like a corpse being dumped in an alley…
Jaime Lannister stiffened.
Rorger's face was no longer human.
Blood crusted beneath his nose.
His mouth sagged.
One eye was nearly sealed shut.
Fingers dangled uselessly at his side.
Jaime felt his stomach twist.
Then fear replaced pity like a blade sliding into his chest.
Because Corleone wasn't there.
Jaime turned sharply.
"Where is Vito Corleone?" he demanded.
His voice cracked across the r
oom like thunder.
Humphrey Waters swallowed.
Jaime stalked forward, every step dangerous.
"Answer me."
---
Meanwhile, deep beneath the city…
Corleone accepted his steak with a polite nod.
His wine with a satisfied smile.
Moss stood nearby, beaming as though he had served a king.
And in the shadows of the Red Keep…
The dice were already rolling.