The East Village was a maze of cobblestone streets and neon signs. Marcus stood across from The Rialto, his hands in the pockets of a black leather jacket—borrowed from Raymond. Sophia stood beside him, wearing a red dress and a fake ID that said "Luna Cruz, 25, event planner."
"Bouncers check IDs at the door," Sophia whispered, nodding at two men in black jackets. "Viktor's rules—no one under 25. My ID should work. You?"
Marcus held up his fake ID: "Jake Marquez, 26, freelance poker player." Sophia had made it the night before, using a photo of Marcus with a fake beard and longer hair.
They walked to the door. The bouncer scanned Marcus's ID, his eyes narrowing. "You look young."
Marcus grinned, slipping him a $20 bill. "Long night. Didn't sleep."
The bouncer nodded, letting them in.
Inside, The Rialto was unrecognizable. The old theater seats had been removed, replaced with poker tables. The stage was a VIP area, where Viktor sat at a green felt table, surrounded by men in suits. He was tall, with a scar across his jaw, his hands folded in front of him.
"Stay close," Marcus whispered to Sophia. "He's the one in the gray suit."
They walked to a nearby table. A dealer in a tuxedo dealt cards. Marcus bought in for $5,000—Miller's money—and took his chips. He glanced at the stage: Viktor was watching him, his fingers tapping the table.
Claire's voice came over his earpiece—she'd arrived 10 minutes earlier, hiding in the balcony. "He's checking you out. Remember— 摸 earlobe = bluff. pinches his sleeve = good hand."
Marcus nodded, picking up his cards: ace and queen of hearts. He bet $100. The player next to him—a man with a tattoo of a snake—called.
The flop came: king of hearts, 10 of diamonds, 3 of clubs. Straight draw. Marcus bet $300. The snake-tattooed man called.
Viktor stood, walking to their table. "Jake Marquez," he said, extending his hand. "Heard you're good. Chen mentioned you."
Marcus shook his hand, his palm sweating. "Chen was a good teacher."
Viktor's earlobe twitched—bluff. "You here to win? Or to work for someone?"
Marcus grinned. "Just win. I heard your games pay well."
Viktor nodded, walking back to the stage. Claire's voice: "He's testing you. Don't trust him."
The turn was a 9 of hearts. Straight. Marcus bet $1,000. The snake-tattooed man folded.
As Marcus pulled the chips toward him, he noticed something: the snake-tattooed man was watching Viktor, his hand in his jacket—reaching for a gun.
"Sophia," Marcus whispered. "Snake tattoo. He's gonna shoot Viktor."
Sophia nodded, slipping her switchblade from her purse. She walked to the bar, pretending to order a drink. When the snake-tattooed man pulled out his gun, Sophia tackled him. The gun went off, hitting the ceiling.
Chaos erupted. Viktor's men pulled out their guns, yelling. Marcus ducked under the table, grabbing his chips—fake ones with GPS trackers—and tossing them onto nearby tables.
Claire ran down from the balcony, grabbing Marcus's arm. "Miller's men are outside. We need to get to the stage—Viktor's got a bomb."
Marcus's blood ran cold. "How do you know?"
"Dad's notes. Viktor always has a backup plan. The bomb's under the stage—set to go off in 10 minutes."
They sprinted to the stage. Viktor was trying to escape through a back door. Marcus tackled him, and they rolled onto the floor. Viktor pulled a knife, slashing Marcus's arm.
"Let me go!" Viktor yelled.
Claire grabbed a chair, hitting Viktor's back. He fell, and Marcus cuffed him with zip ties—stolen from Miller's car.
"Bomb," Marcus said, standing. "Under the stage."
Claire nodded, kneeling to look under the stage. She pulled out a small metal box—wires sticking out. "I need a screwdriver. And a phone—Miller has the deactivation code."
Sophia ran over, handing her a screwdriver from her purse. Marcus called Miller, his arm bleeding.
"Code's 1794," Miller said. "Hurry—3 minutes left."
Claire typed the code. The bomb's beeping stopped.
They sighed, relieved. Then Viktor laughed, blood dripping from his lip. "You think this is over? Ivan's coming. He'll burn down your mom's restaurant. He'll kill your girlfriend. You can't stop him."
Marcus's jaw tightened. He looked at Claire, then at Sophia.
Ivan Petrov. The Russian mob.
The game was far from over.