"I enjoy winning, Mr. Blackwood," I say. I make my accent thick, sounding like a man bored by privilege. "But yes, I have money to burn. And I hear you like to play."
"I take risks," he says, swallowing his drink. "Calculated risks."
Liar,I think.You haven't calculated a risk in twenty years. You just close your eyes and pray.
The dealer shuffles the cards.
We play.
It’s a slow kill.
For the first hour, I play the fool. I make bad bets. I let Arthur win pot after pot.
I watch him relax. He drinks more. He sits up straighter, more confident and laughing.
The sound grates on my nerves.
I remember that laugh. I remember hearing it echo in my father's study twenty years ago. Back then, it was warm. Now, it sounds like a shovel hitting dirt.
I grip my glass so hard that I fear it might shatter. Still, I welcome the pain.
The fear in his eyes is replaced by arrogance.
He thinks he’s tricking me. He looks at the other two players—my men, though he doesn't know it—and offers them a pitying look when they fold.
Drink, you pig,I think.
I look at my cards—a pair of Queens. It’s a winning hand, but I fold. I let him take the money with a weak pair of sixes.
"Fatten yourself up for the slaughter," I mutter.
"You play loose, Mr. Volkov," Arthur says, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and victory. He gestures to the waitress for another round. "Very loose."
"I don't worry about money," I reply, tossing a chip to the dealer. "Money is like water. It flows."
Arthur laughs.
I watch him over the rim of my glass. I know secrets that would make him sick. How he didn't stumble into debt. How he has paid the Moretti crime family for years.
The Italians.
The same people who killed my family.
They have been bleeding him dry.
By 2:00 AM, Arthur has a huge pile of chips in front of him. Almost two hundred thousand dollars.
His expression beams with triumph. The fool thinks he has saved his company. He thinks he’s safe.
I look at Lev. He gives a small nod.
It’s time.
"Last hand," I say, faking a yawn.
I tap my finger on the table.
Once.
