1
Tyler
One million dollars. That’s whatI could make tonight if the party keeps up like this.
I still couldn’t believe I’d pulled it off. Weeks of planning, tens of thousands in costs, and untold laws broken—all to host a private, high-stakes gambling night onboard an abandoned freight ship that sat decaying in the old port. It was the absolute last place anyone would think to look for an ultra-exclusive party for the city’s elite, which is why it was perfect.
A raucous cheer erupted from the crowd. Everyone wore masks to protect their anonymity, including the staff, but, as the master of ceremonies, I knew who they were. I turned to see a blond woman in a scarlet ball gown jump in celebration. She must have hit it big, which was good for both herandme.
As the bookie hosting this little soiree, my take-home was ten percent of all winnings. And while, yes, a million dollars mightseemlike a lot of cash, after all the bribes and payouts, I’d be lucky to net a third of it, most of which would get reinvested into my next game night.
But it was worth it. The real money was in interest, anyway. If any of our players ran out of funds, we, the house, helpfully supplied them with the means to keep playing. For a fee, of course. It was small enough to be appealing, a fisherman’s hook to ensnare the unsuspecting. Only after people took the bait did they realize how much that fee stacked up if they didn’t pay us back on time.
My gaze swept over the rest of the room, a cavernous chamber that was formerly a cargo bay. Now, over two dozen tables filled the space, some draped in white linens holding platters of gourmet dishes, others surrounded by gamblers in designer dresses and suits. A bar was set up along the far wall, and waitstaff made their way to and from it, delivering top-shelf cocktails to the crowd. Soft light filtered down from chandeliers, glinting off jewels and champagne flutes in a way that lent a dreamlike quality to the scene.
I sighed, thinking of the war of one-upmanship I was fighting with myself. Tonight was a triumph, a party to end all parties. But next time, I’d have to come up with something even better, even more unexpected and exciting. My partieshadto remain the most elusive and sought-after entertainment in this city. The wealthy, I’d learned, were a lot like spoiled children, easily distracted by the latest shiny object, and it took a lot to keep them clamoring for a spot at my tables.
And to think, all this started in my college dorm room. I’d been a broke-as-shit double major in finance and business, looking to make some tuition money on the side so I wouldn’t have to drop out. I’d always been good with numbers and pattern recognition, so cards were easy for me. My brain inherentlyknewwhich ones were left in a deck without having to consciously count them.
At first, my poker nights were small, just me and whoever I convinced to play. Most didn’t stick around after repeatedly losing to me, and I thought I’d been cooked because of it, my money-making scheme over before it even began. But then rumors started circulating that I was unbeatable, and soon every wannabe poker pro and math genius was clamoring to get in on the games, making me enough cash to stave off financial panic.
A class about entrepreneurship planted the seed that there might be more stable moneybehindthe table, running the games like a business. I opened it up to all levels of gamblers, from experienced players to rookies trying their luck for the first time. Then two things happened at once: People at school found out that my best friend, Josh, was the son of a notorious serial killer, and the faculty caught wind of my games. So we moved to the city to start over. I transferred schools, but Josh dropped out to become a professional hacker because he was a better programmer than any of his professors, and there was nothing left for them to teach him.
I left the games behind, finished out my senior year, and went into corporate finance after graduation. But it only took me a year to realize I hated it. Hated dressing up in a suit to go work with a bunch of shitheads who treatedThe Wolf of Wall Streetlike an instruction manual. Hated my entry-level salary that barely covered cost of living, because Iknewthere were better (and easier) ways to make money. Also, it was boring as shit. Unchallenging. And my boss was a fucking idiot, landing his role via nepotism, not merit—another reminder of why I’d always hated the rich.
Quitting let me get back to my old ways. I started another poker night, building it back up from scratch. This time around, I let myself think bigger. I wasn’t just in it to make money. I had an objective: revenge. A target to pursue. Every game advanced my agenda, but tonight, in particular, was a massive move forward in bringing me one step closer tohim.
Another cheer sounded from a nearby blackjack game. This time it was an art dealer who’d won. To his left, a hedge fund manager looked on with envy. To his right, a crime boss gave him a congratulatory slap on the back.
I pulled my gaze away and adjusted my mask. It was black, accented with green jewels and molded to look like a devil, complete with glaring eye holes and twisted horns. Maybe it was overkill, but seeing as how I’d been described as the devil incarnate more than once in my life, I figured the symbolism would serve as a good reminder to my clients that it wasn’t smart to fuck with me.
I settled the mask back in place and headed toward a trio of poker tables near the ship’s boiler. Seated at the center one, with his back to me, was a twenty-year-old man-child who had no business being here.
Blake McCormick.
He was an heir to one of the largest fortunes in the city. I’d seated him with the best poker players in attendance, and if all was going to plan, he was being overserved by the bartenders. I’d also instructed his dealer to inform Blake that if he overextended and ran out of money, the house would happily lend him more.
The dealer and I locked eyes, and the man sent me a subtle nod of confirmation.
I grinned. The kid was already running up a debt, and the night was still young. Who knew how much he might owe me by the time it was over? Half a million? More? Whatever the amount, it was a debt I fully planned to exploit.
Because Blake had an older sister who would do absolutely anything to protect him, and she was going to be my way in. My means to an end.Shewas going to lead me straight tohim.My father. The man I moved to this city to find. The man I moved to this city to ruin.
See you soon, Stella, I thought, smiling to myself as another round of cheers rose from the crowd.
2
Stella
The shop was quiet thisearly in the day, without the buzz of tattoo guns or the idle conversation of my coworkers.
Too quiet.
It left room for thoughts to bubble up. Thoughts like, would my utilities increase again this month? Why was the word “Ohio” now an insult? And would that mole on my thigh eventually turn into skin cancer and kill me?
I plugged my phone into the sound system and put on my favorite playlist to drown out my inner monologue. Soft, eerie music floated from the overhead speakers. The notes were filled with longing, regret, and fading memories of happier times. One of the other artists I worked with, Elayne, said it sounded like the funeral dirge of a Victorian spinster. She’d looked confused when I’d thanked her.
The song matched the shop’s décor: dark, Gothic. Framed antique ephemera hung on the walls. Vintage taxidermy rubbed elbows with reproduction Roman busts and leafy houseplants on bookshelves. In the common areas, thick rugs softened the cement floors, with cushy leather armchairs and sofas crowded atop them. It was maximalist, a feast for the eyes. New customers regularly told me they didn’t know where to look first. Returning customers loved discovering new curiosities while they waited for their appointment. It had turned into a sort of game, with me switching out pieces to see who would be the first to notice a new addition.
