Page 9 of Deadly Hands

Time to make an appearance.

Nikon adjusted his cuffs as he descended to the poker room floor. The familiar sounds washed over him - chips clicking, ice cubes settling in crystal, quiet murmurs of conversation carrying hidden threats. His domain. His carefully crafted arena where power shifted with each dealt card.

Reuben’s head snapped up at his approach, those green eyes darkening with something more complex than fear.

“I trust everything meets your expectations?” Nikon kept his voice low, intimate. A conversation just for them, despite the crowded room.

“The stakes...” Reuben’s throat worked. “That’s more than—”

“Than you’ve ever played for?” Nikon stepped closer, using his height advantage. “Consider it motivation to stay focused.”

Something flashed in Reuben’s eyes - defiance, perhaps. Or determination. Either way, it sent a pleasant heat through Nikon’s blood.

“The game starts in ten minutes.” Nikon’s hand found Reuben’s shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to feel the tension beneath the fabric. “Don’t disappoint me.”

Two hours into the game, Nikon watched from his preferred spot against the rail as Reuben folded another hand. The boy was playing too tight, letting the weight of the stakes paralyze him. At this rate, he’d blind himself out of the game before midnight.

The bathroom break couldn’t have come at a better time.

Nikon waited thirty seconds after Reuben left the table before following. The restroom’s muted lighting cast elongated shadows across the Italian marble, creating swirling patches of darkness between the ornate sconces.

Reuben stood at the sink, splashing water on his face. His reflection in the mirror showed pupils blown wide with stress.

“Having fun?” Nikon leaned against the door frame, effectively blocking the exit.

A humorless laugh escaped Reuben’s throat. “Is that what this is supposed to be?”

“It could be.” Nikon reached into his jacket, producing a silver flask. “If you’d stop playing scared money.”

“Scared money?” Water droplets clung to Reuben’s lashes as he turned. “You handed me three-quarters of a million dollars and told me not to lose it. How exactly should I be playing?”

“Like the player I saw last night.” Nikon unscrewed the flask cap. “The one who read souls across the felt and made them dance to his tune.” He extended the flask. “The one who wasn’t afraid to take risks.”

“That was different.” But Reuben’s eyes fixed on the flask with obvious longing.

“Was it?” Nikon moved closer, invading Reuben’s space. “Or are you just making excuses?”

Color rose in Reuben’s cheeks. “I don’t need your whiskey.”

“No?” Nikon’s free hand caught Reuben’s chin, tilting it up. “Then perhaps you’d prefer my previous offer? The one about working off your debt in... other ways?”

Reuben snatched the flask, his fingers brushing Nikon’s in a way that sent electricity dancing up his arm. The boy took a long pull, throat working as he swallowed. A drop of whiskey clung to his bottom lip.

Nikon’s thumb itched to brush it away.

“Better?” He kept his voice low, intimate in the marble-enclosed space.

Reuben’s tongue darted out, catching that tempting droplet. “We’ll see.”

The change was immediate when they returned to the table. Reuben’s posture loosened, his betting patterns grew aggressive but controlled. He stopped playing his cards and started playing his opponents.

Nikon’s chest filled with something dangerously close to pride.

By hour five, Reuben had tripled the starting stack. His reads were perfect, his timing impeccable. The quiet player to his left - one of the Colombians’ top lieutenants - had gone from dismissive to wary.

More interesting was what Reuben didn’t seem to notice - the spectator on the rail wearing a silk Versace shirt dripping with gold chains, whose face darkened each time Reuben won a pot from their man.

The stack grew to $1.2 million before the inevitable happened.

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