Page 48 of Kings Against the World

The others playing this round, like the only girl at table seven, are nothing to worry about. The girl’s a newer contender to Boone’s tournaments, blonde with silver hoop earrings and small, mousy features. She tucks her bottom lip under her top row of teeth and reaches for her chips before the dealer’s even finished dealing.

It’s a rookie mistake, but reveals a lot about how rash and eager she is.

Dealer says, “Bets open.”

DJ’s first. He tosses in a raise, all fake swagger. He’s trying to scare folks off by acting like he’s got a winning hand.

Two others around the table fold like clockwork. Blondie takes DJ up on his offer, adding her chips to the pile. The heavyset guy scratches his nose again—complete with his double sniff—and then calls.

I’m last to go, taking my time, assessing the moment. I collect more chips than necessary and add them to the pot.

“Raise.”

DJ grits his teeth and mutters, “Seriously?”

Blondie folds this time, but DJ huffs and raises again. The fool thinks he can outplay me.

I shove in more chips, matching him.

The heavyset guy hesitates. His fingers hover over his chips before he obliges. He’s going with his gut, trusting that the hand he has is good enough to carry him.

Only three of us have stayed in.

The time for the reveal comes and I lay my cards on the table.

My ace of spades and king of hearts join the jack of diamonds, ten of clubs and queen of spades on the table.

I win the hand, setting the tone for the rest of the game. DJ’s like a ticking time bomb as the dealer passes out the next hand. The old man’s kept his cool, though he’s no longer sniffing.

For the rest of the round, I’m proving how adept I am at reading people and assessing the cards at play. DJ tries to out-bluff me a second time only to bust and lose the rest of what he has.

I rake in the mountain of chips once it’s all said and done, the weight of the win settling over me. I’m met with cheers in the lounge. Everybody who was watching the different game tables erupts and tells me how they impressive it was that I outmaneuvered the others with no trouble at all.

The cheers die down as everybody turns to check for Boone’s reaction. He’s remained in his seat, nursing his drink and letting his cigar smolder. Finally, he sits up in the lounge chair and sets down his glass. The lounge has become so quiet that the glass connects with a loud thud on the table.

“Oz, congratulations,” he says, his tone mild. “How about we get started on the private celebrations?”

It’s code for everybody who’s not part of his crew to get the hell out of here. Everybody takes note, making themselves scarce without a second thought. In less than a minute, I find myself in the lounge with Boone and only his closest allies.

He rises to his feet and so do his men. Holding out his hand, he offers me a handshake. “Really, Oz. Congratulations, youfucking won the biggest pot of the first round. All on your own. No extra help needed.”

My grip is limp on his, aware this handshake is more mind games. I pull mine back. “Yeah, well… doing what I always do. Playing my best game.”

“That sure is what you were doing.” He releases a deep sigh and strokes the hair on his jaw. “The thing is, we just had a talk about this, didn’t we? How we’re supposed to be in this together, and then you go defy all that. You decide to go against my rules. What do you expect me to do now?”

“I can win without the help,” I say plainly. “I don’t need marked cards.”

My declarative statement is met with loud silence until Boone breaks it with a throaty laugh. His grin returns and he takes a step back.

“I see I’ve been too nice. I see you’re still not understanding. Boys, why don’t you help him understand.”

Before I can even think of what he’s said, his guys are on me. They’ve rushed me with fists flying. I duck fast enough to dodge the first few punches. But there’s too many of them.

The attack’s too sudden. I’m fucked as Moe’s fist connects with the side of my face and then some other fucker by the name of Hawke gut punches me. I’m brought to my knees, bowing forward from the force of the punch.

It’s the first of many to come.

Boots rain down. Knuckles crack against bones.

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