[A/N: I recently posted a chapter, but then I realized how stupid that chapter was. So, this.]
Hmm... where should I start this story?
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...
Okay, I got it.
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Brooklyn. After midnight.
You can smell a bad game before you see it. The sweat. The nerves. The stink of men who think winning is a birthright and cheating is a victimless crime.
I walk in through the meat freezer.
The real door's behind the hanging beef. You knock three times, pause, then once more. If they don't like your face, you go home without kneecaps.
They liked mine just enough.
The place is boiler-room ugly—cinderblock walls, folding chairs, and a cracked mirror behind the bar. Eight grand in cash on the table. Pistols tucked under three jackets. Six men who've never lost a hand they didn't accuse someone else of stealing.
I buy cheap, on purpose. Make them believe I came for some goddamn money.
"Hope you brought luck, mystery man," the one in the leather jacket says. Name's Rossi. A broker for illegal purposes. No one that you guys need to worry about getting treated wrong. I did the research.
"I sure did, sir," I muttered as I shook his hand.
Two Hours Later
I'm up twenty grand.
Not because I cheat — I don't need to. Everyone cheats here, and none of them know how to do it well. That's the difference between a gambler and a con. A gambler thinks the cards matter.
Me? I read men, not hands.
Rossi blinks every time he bluffs. The kid with the Yankee cap taps his middle finger against his glass when he's sitting on a pair. The bartender's feeding the bald guy signals — thigh taps and eye flicks. Bitch thinks he's in Mission: Impossible.
I fold more than I play. I lose early. I get chatty. I let them think I'm a rich idiot with soft hands and sharp shoes. They start to like me. Then they start to want to beat me.
That's when I take everything. And they lose everything.
And here's the fun part, their faces- they start to get tense, sweat rolling down in beads from their heads, and a look on their face... scared and regretful.
I keep smiling.
Rossi leans back, cracking his neck like he's about to make a decision.
"You're lucky tonight," he says, voice flat.
He's giving me a door — a polite way to leave before the guns come out.
"Yep, I sure am," I told him, flashing a smile from the depths of my heart.
He clicked his tongue, chuckling a bit before the chuckling turned into a vengeful fucking frown. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at my head.
I looked at him, my smile unwavering. "Come on, man, don't be a sore loser." I told him as I raised my hands.
He didn't like that. Not the smile. Not the tone. Definitely not the implication that he'd already lost more than just cash.
"You think I give a shit what I look like right now?" Rossi hissed, finger twitching near the trigger. "You played me. Humiliated me. That kind of thing costs people."
He wasn't wrong. In his world, losing face was worse than losing money. Pride was currency. And I'd just robbed him blind.
"You're right," I said, slowly lowering my hands. "But think about this, Rossi — if you shoot me, what does that say about you?"
The room tensed. Guns were being thought about, but not yet drawn. They were waiting for Rossi.
I kept going. Had to.
"That a little street hustler beat you? That your game wasn't tight enough to spot it? That you couldn't take it like a man, so you killed someone over cards?"
I took a slow breath. Let the silence hang.
"Everyone here saw what happened. You want 'em to remember tonight as the time you got cleaned out by a tourist? Or the time you killed one?"
His hand didn't lower.
But his eyes darted. Just a flicker. Left, right, scanning for someone to back him. But none of them did. Not even the bartender. He was suddenly very interested in polishing a glass that was already clean.
Good.
Now twist the knife.
"Besides," I added, leaning in just enough to make it personal, "you kill me, you don't get your money back. And you definitely don't get the names I brought with me."
That stopped him cold.
"Names?"
I leaned back in my chair, resting my legs on the table.
"Well, I've got a guy in the chair. He's a hacker, techy shit. Boggles my mind, but anyway, here's the point: I got all the history of your hidden buys. Bribes. Rat deals. Along with some pretty nasty stuff." I told him.
His frown deepened. "This was a fucking setup?!" He shouted at me as he held my collar.
"Careful on the words, Mr. Rossi. They can be very dangerous to your freedom. I'm not asking for much, just thirty-five, no, forty percent of your bank account, and you're done, I'll give the stuff I have on you."
Rossi's knuckles went white around the pistol. His lips curled back in something between a sneer and a panic attack. His breathing? Shallow. Fast.
"Woah, woah, woah, be aware that's a gun you're holding at me, Rossi. Stay in control." I told him.
He banged his hand on the table.
"I know, it's very frustrating, I understand you. But some things just can't be avoided, Mr. Rossi." I told him, a cruel smile planted on my face unknowingly.
ossi stared at me, hand twitching near the trigger like it was the only muscle left under his control. His jaw worked, grinding his teeth into what I could only guess was a decision.
I didn't flinch.
That's the trick. Show fear, they think they own you. Smile too wide, and they think you're crazy. But stand still — still — and they start to wonder if maybe you know something they don't.
Which I did.
"Forty percent," I repeated. Calm. Measured. "It's generous," I told him as I took out a deck of cards, shuffling
The pistol lowered half an inch.
"You don't even know what you're playing with," he muttered.
"I know about Mr. Wilson Fisk, Mr. Rossi, if that's who you're talking about." I told him.
He turned pale as he lowered his gun even more, "He'd destroy you, you don't know about him." He said. Some of the words taking a bit longer to come out.
"I do know about him, very poor digital security he has. Or my friend's just that talented. I knew that fucker was up to something when he was interested in my computer science teacher's teaching rather than her ass." I muttered as I put a finger on my chin thoughtfully.
I looked at the younger guy, slowly moving away from the place.
"Just get out of here, no need to be shy," I told him as I shooed him away.
He quite literally ran out the door, as fast as he could. Not that fast, but very fast considering his stature.
"So, Mr. Rossi, I'm getting tired of this, so let's quickly bring out the big bucks, alright? I want it in cash."
"You think this is a game?" he spat. But the gun was practically limp in his grip now, hanging like a dead limb.
I leaned forward, casual as sunrise, still shuffling that black velvet deck. The cards didn't make a sound. They never did.
"Everything's a game, Rossi. You just don't know which one you're playing yet."
He sat down. Hard. Like gravity had doubled. The rest of the room stayed frozen — watching, waiting, breathing in sync with his panic.
I looked at him. Dead-on.
"You're going to get me that money," I said. "In cash. In a bag. No trackers. No tricks. And in return, I make the file disappear. All the dirty dealings. All the faces. All the numbers."
He rubbed his temples. Eyes sunken.
"And if I don't?"
I smiled like I'd rehearsed it in the mirror.
"Eh, life in prison probably. That's before Mr. Fisk kills you because you didn't solve the problem and instead tried to be a smartass." I told him, shrugging. "It's not that hard of a choice, man. Just forty percent, you'll earn it back in what, a couple of years? That's all."
He gritted his teeth as he kicked the chair away before shooting the other guy in the head, his brain pulp splattering everywhere like a burst watermelon.
"FUCK!" He banged the table again.
I looked at the body, the blood reaching up to me slowly.
"God, have a bit of humanity, will you?" I asked as I stood up.
"Alright," he said, voice low. "You win this one. You get your fucking money."
He didn't look at the body. Didn't even blink.
"But you'd better hope the right people don't hear about tonight."
I grabbed a napkin from the bar and wiped a fleck of blood from my cuff.
"Oh, I hope they do," I said. "More connections for me. Thus, more money."
"And for a friendly warning, let me tell you, if by chance you find my friend... and you kill him," My voice dropped as I looked at him, dead in the eye, missing the snark I had before. "I will kill you."
I took the cash. Forty percent. A little more, actually — call it an emotional surcharge.
"Pleasure doing business," I said, folding the bills into a black duffel like I was packing groceries.
Rossi didn't answer. Just stared at the dead guy like the body might start lecturing him on poor impulse control.
I left through the freezer. Same way I came in. Door swung shut behind me, meat hooks creaking like old bones. Outside, the night was damp and hollow. Streetlight flickered like it owed someone money.
Parked down the block, a silver Camry idled. In the driver's seat, he waited.
Marcus. Hacker. Paranoid. Best friend I never wanted.
He looked up as I slid in. "You're late," he said, typing something rapid-fire on his cracked tablet.
"There was a complication."
"I saw. Facial recognition picked up a gun, yelling, one confirmed fatality. So yeah. Little bit of a wrinkle."
I handed him the bag. He peeked inside and whistled.
"That's more than expected."
I scoffed, "I'm just built different, my guy. I have them skills, remember?" I asked him.
"Stop bragging, jackass."
"And how about you shut the fuck up and drive, unless you wanna be followed and killed by some gangsters from the Underworld."
Marcus swerved out into traffic like it owed him rent, tires squealing just enough to get a ticket if the cops weren't all sleeping or paid off.
"Underworld gangsters?" he muttered. "You're not being dramatic enough."
"I'm running out of adjectives," I said, leaning back in the passenger seat and cracking the window.
"You handled it pretty well, I must admit. That too without using your black magic cards type thing. Bitch ass cards."
I stared at him, "Take that back, motherfucker. You cannot disrespect the cards like that." I slapped him in the face.
"Ow! Fuck you!" He slapped me back.
I punched him on the nose, and 'accidentally' broke it.
"Son of a bitch!!!" He shouted.