Page 10 of Deadly Hands

“You fucking cheated!” The words exploded from a player who’d just lost his third major pot to Reuben. The man lunged across the table, chips scattering like shrapnel.

Nikon moved before his security could react. His hand found the man’s throat, pushing him back against the rail with precise pressure.

“I suggest,” Nikon kept his voice conversational even as his fingers tightened, “you rethink that accusation.”

Recognition dawned in the man’s bloodshot eyes. His face paled. “Mr. Matvei... I didn’t realize—”

“Clearly.” Nikon released his grip, letting the man stumble. “Cash him out.”

Nikon turned to find Reuben stood frozen beside the poker table, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and something that might have been gratitude. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on the felt - another tell to file away.

“Join me for a drink.” The words weren’t a request. Nikon’s hand settled on the small of Reuben’s back, steering him away toward the restaurant’s private section before he could refuse.

Reuben’s pulse jumped visibly at his throat, but he didn’t pull away from the touch. Progress.

The restaurant sat adjacent to the poker room - a Michelin-starred establishment that served as one of the Matvei family’s more respectable ventures. White tablecloths and crystal stemware provided the perfect cover for less savory dealings, while the private dining sections offered discrete spaces for sensitive conversations.

Reuben hesitated at the threshold between the two spaces, as if crossing from the poker room to the restaurant might somehow make everything more real. Nikon’s hand remained steady against his back, both guidance and warning, as he led them to his preferred corner booth.

“Your tells are showing.” Nikon guided Reuben into the booth, while positioning himself to block any exit route. “You keep glancing at the door.”

“Can you blame me?” Reuben’s fingers worried the edge of a leather-bound menu. “After what just happened?”

“The situation was handled.”

“By choking a man against a rail?”

Nikon signaled the waitress, ordering their finest bourbon without consulting Reuben. “Would you have preferred I let him attack you?”

Color rose in Reuben’s cheeks. He dropped his gaze to the table, shoulders tense beneath that expensive new shirt.

“Now,” Nikon leaned forward, pitching his voice low. “Tell me about the Colombian.”

“What?” Reuben’s eyes snapped up, startled.

“The quiet player on your left. What did you notice?”

“Why do you want to know? Isn’t he a regular?”

Nikon’s jaw tightened at the questioning. The boy would need to learn when to stop pushing. But for now... “Humor me.”

Reuben sat back, some of that poker table confidence returning to his posture. “Fine. He has three tells. A lip twitch when he’s strong, a finger tap when he’s drawing, and he holds his breath for exactly three seconds before bluffing.”

“And?”

“And he kept looking at someone on the rail. A guy in a purple tie who seemed... unhappy every time I won a pot.”

Nikon’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t noticed that detail himself. “Go on.”

“There’s more to it than just tension over money.” Reuben leaned forward, voice dropping lower. “Watch his left hand when the cartel guy approaches the rail. He does this subtle gesture - like he’s trying to wave someone off without being obvious. But only when certain pots are in play.”

Nikon’s mind raced through weeks of surveillance footage. He’d never caught that detail.

“He’s signaling which hands he’s playing with personal funds versus cartel money.” Reuben’s fingers tapped the table, reconstructing the pattern. “The gesture comes before the action, every time. And those are the pots he plays most aggressively - when he’s trying to win back what he’s lost of their money.”

“How did you—”

“The timing.” Reuben’s eyes took on that focused sharpness Nikon had first noticed at the poker table. “He makes the gesture, then three hands later the purple tie guy checks his phone. Like he’s confirming something. My guess? He’s reporting losses to someone higher up. Someone our quiet friend is terrified of disappointing.”

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