Most people came to Las Vegas chasing luck. They came seeking a single, life-changing moment that would erase a lifetime of mediocrity. Darren Cruz Delgado didn't believe in luck. He believed in odds, in leverage, in stacking the deck so thoroughly that losing wasn't an option. Luck was for amateurs, for the desperate, for the ones who didn't understand that the house always wins.
But God help him, he still loved watching people try. He loved the glint in their eyes, the nervous sweat on their brows, the desperate hope that flickered just before it died.
From his corner booth in the Azul Mirage Casino, a space so perfectly placed it was less a seat and more a throne, Darren swirled a glass of vintage añejo tequila. It was the good stuff, the kind that tasted like burnt sugar and old memories. The air, thick with the scent of expensive perfume, stale cigarettes, and something metallic that always lingered around money, was his element. He watched a bachelor party stumble toward the blackjack tables. They were a riot of matching t-shirts, red faces, and spilled beer—loud, confident, brimming with the kind of bravado only small-town boys brought to a city built on deception. They thought Vegas was their playground, a place where the rules didn't apply.
"Five minutes," Darren murmured, the words barely audible over the din of slot machines and cheering crowds. His gaze remained fixed on the group. "They'll be broke in five minutes."
"Three," Mateo his right-hand man didn't even bother to look up from his tablet replied, his voice a low rumble. He'd been with Darren since before the Azul Mirage was more than a blueprint in a bank vault. He knew Darren's tells and could read the room almost as well.
Darren smirked, the dimples cutting into his cheeks, a flash of genuine amusement. It was a rarity. "Care to make it interesting?"
They didn't bet money—not here. Not in Darren's house. Money was a tool, not a prize. They bet in favors, in dares, in stupid little games that kept them sharp. The stakes were a trip to a boxing match in Macao or the privilege of making the other clean out his entire garage. The games were a way of keeping the competitive edge that had clawed its way to the top.
When the first man at the blackjack table tossed a wad of cash and then immediately lost his shirt, Darren lifted his glass in a silent, victorious toast. Mateo groaned, a quiet, almost inaudible sound. "You rigged it."
"I don't rig games," Darren said, feigning innocence, a charming glint in his dark eyes. He took a slow sip of his tequila. "I rig outcomes."
The waitress passing by flushed when Darren's smile caught her. It wasn't intentional— his smile had that effect, a sudden, charming flash that seemed to disarm anyone who saw it. He tipped her generously anyway, slipping a hundred-dollar chip into her palm with a wink. People always assumed Darren's power came from fear. And to a certain extent, it did. Fear was a useful tool for keeping enemies in line and debts paid on time, sure, but fear was a temporary solution. Charm? Charm was an investment. It opened doors fear could only splinter. Charm made people want to give you things. It made them feel like they were a part of something important, something exciting. And Darren, with his dark hair, dangerous eyes, and those damn dimples, had enough charm to buy out the Strip twice over.
Still, it wasn't charm that built his empire. It was discipline. It was work. And yes, it was blood. The casino floor buzzed with the usual chaos, but Darren saw it differently than the tourists did. He saw the money flowing, the security cameras turning, the dealers' subtle signals, the debts written on faces. The Mirage was alive, and every heartbeat, every pulse of energy, every fleeting moment of hope and despair belonged to him.
"Another table trying to skim?" Mateo asked, his voice cutting through the hum.
Darren shook his head. "Not tonight. Tonight feels… clean."
And for once, it almost did. A group of newlyweds walked past, laughing, the bride barefoot and carrying her heels. She stumbled, catching herself on Darren's booth.
"Oh my God—sorry!" she gasped, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Darren stood instantly, offering his hand with a smile that could disarm a hostile takeover. "No apology necessary. Vegas was built for stumbles."
She blinked up at him, clearly startled by his presence, by the sheer, unyielding force of his gaze. "You're—uh…"
"Just another man enjoying a drink," Darren said smoothly, his dimples flashing. He pressed a fresh hundred-dollar chip into her hand before she could protest. "For your honeymoon. Put it on red."
Her husband hurried over, eyeing Darren warily until the bride held up the chip in disbelief. "He gave it to us!"
The man relaxed a fraction, a wary smile replacing his scowl. Darren just raised his glass in a lazy toast, the gesture a silent promise of goodwill.
They disappeared into the crowd, laughter trailing behind them like a sweet song.
Mateo sighed, a sound of resignation. "You're going soft."
Darren leaned back, his smirk deepening. He watched the newlyweds disappear into the vibrant sea of the casino floor. "I'm investing in good karma."
"You don't believe in karma."
"No," Darren agreed, his eyes glinting. "But I like the idea that the universe owes me something."
For a brief moment, he let himself enjoy it—the hum of music, the flicker of neon, the taste of good tequila. Nights like this were rare. Nights without violence, without betrayal, without the constant, gnawing threat of competition.
Of course, Vegas never stayed clean for long. The floor manager, a man named Leo, approached, pale and nervous, the very picture of a man on the verge of a panic attack. "Mr. Delgado—we've got a situation."
Darren arched a brow, his relaxed posture gone in an instant, replaced by a coiled tension. "Define situation."
"A man on the high-roller table. He's up half a million. Won't quit. He's… different. Not like the others."
Darren's smirk sharpened. He stood, buttoning his impeccably tailored jacket, the movement precise and deliberate, and strode across the floor. Heads turned as he passed—not because he demanded it, but because Darren Cruz Delgado carried himself like gravity. He was gravity itself, and everyone else just orbited.
The high-roller lounge was thick with cigar smoke and tension. A man in a tacky, ill-fitting suit with a too-tight tie sat at the baccarat table, chips stacked high, grinning like he'd cracked the code of the universe. He was a caricature of a high-roller, all flash and no substance. But the way he held his cards, the steady rhythm of his hands, betrayed an unnerving calm.
Darren slid into the seat across from him, his presence immediately shifting the energy of the room. "Mind if I join?"
The man blinked, recognition dawning. His tacky grin faltered for a moment. "You're—the owner?"
"Something like that." Darren gestured, and the dealer, a seasoned veteran who had seen it all, reset the deck with a quiet efficiency. "Let's play."
They played. Hand after hand, the man's luck sputtered. It wasn't a dramatic collapse, but a slow, methodical bleed. Darren didn't cheat. He didn't need to. He had patience, a supreme talent for calculation, and an unshakable calm that unsettled even the cockiest gambler. He watched the man's eyes, the subtle twitches of his fingers, the way he held his breath just a second too long. He was a man who believed in luck, a man who saw his wins as a sign from the universe. And Darren was the man who was about to prove him wrong.
When the man finally lost everything back, a look of shocked disbelief on his face, Darren leaned forward, dimples flashing. "The house always wins."
The man swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his temple. Darren patted his shoulder, almost kindly. "But don't worry. Drinks are on me."
As the man slunk away, a ghost in his own failed triumph, Darren rose, tucking his hands into his pockets. He wasn't cruel—not unless he needed to be. Tonight had been about theater, about reminding everyone who really owned this city.
Back in his booth, Mateo shook his head. "You didn't even flinch."
"Why would I?" Darren poured another drink, his voice soft but certain. "I never gamble when I don't already know the outcome."
And that was the truth of Darren Cruz Delgado. He could charm you, disarm you, even make you laugh—but underneath it all, he was the man who never lost. Not in business. Not in blood. Not in Vegas. At least… not yet.