Page 47 of Kings Against the World

“I hope it’s still clear we’re in this together,” he says after a few seconds, adding a grin. He picks up his glass of caramel colored liquor. “I’ve been sensing some tension, Oz. Tell me I’ve got it all wrong; tell me you understand our deal.”

“Nothing’s changed on my end.”

“Good to hear. Let this be the last time there might be a misunderstanding. You remember what’s special about the cards at your table, don’t you?”

My skin prickles hot. I manage a nod. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“See, now that makes me a happy man. And hey—no hard feelings about your woman. We all know who she belongs to. It’s all in good fun. She reallyistalented.”

I know what to make of Boone—more asserting his dominance and command over the situation. But as I turn to go, it’s Estrada who’s the mystery. He sits at Boone’s side like a silent co-pilot, never taking his gaze off me. He looks like the manager at a bank or some other type of corporate setting, dressed neatly in his button up shirt to Boone’s leather and denim.

Everybody associated with Boone is a snake, from Chmura to Benz to the rest of his cronies.

Estrada’s no different, even if I haven’t figured out how yet.

Somebody’s double-crossing somebody, and I don’t mean me and Zoe.

There’s something else going on in Boone’s circle that I can’t put my finger on.

But it almost doesn’t matter, because I don’t really fuck with Boone regardless of what goes down. He enrages me more by the second as I re-enter the game floor and everybody’s taking their positions at their tables.

You remember what’s special about the cards at your table, don’t you?

I head for table seven where Judd is sliding into his designated seat. The dealer’s already placed the deck on the table as the final minutes to start time wind down.

“Hey,” I call out. “Change of plans, Judd. You’re on table six now. I’m seven.”

Judd’s brow creases. “But the game board says?—”

“We’ve been switched,” I interrupt. “You take my place at six. I’ll be at this table.”

Judd’s still uncertain even as he steps back and lets me slide into his chair. Nobody else says anything at the table, though I can tell the abrupt change has thrown everybody off.

The clock hits zero and the games officially begin. The dealer starts shuffling the cards.

I can hardly keep from grinning as more of Boone’s words echo in my ears.

Let this be the last time there might be a misunderstanding.

It’ll be a matter of seconds before Boone, smoking and drinking in his lounge watching on the big screens, realizes what’s happened. That I’ve switched from the table with his marked cards designed to give me an easy win and gone to a different table where I’ll have to win on merit.

Basically destroying his whole scheme to ensure his player won.

Boone loves reminding everybody he’s in charge, but he forgot one thing—I don’t fucking do authority. I don’t fucking need Boone’s marked cards to win the round. I can do it on my own.

The dealer deals the cards around the table and I take a look at my first hand, the cards carefully fanned out.

Ace of spades, king of hearts. My mouth twitches. Hell of a way to start. Strong, but not flashy. Not enough to scare off the cautious types, but enough to crush the cocky ones if they’re not paying attention.

I lean back in the chair, eyes sweeping across the table like a man casing a joint.

Left of me, sits an older heavyset guy with a spare tire for a gut. Sweat glistens on his bald dome under the casino lights. Hescratches his nose twice and double-sniffs. It’s a definite tell of his, one way or another.

My guess? He’s sitting on something he likes; something that’s worthwhile. Three of a kind or a pocket pair he thinks’ll hold up.

Across from me, a guy named DJ twitches. His neck tattoo creeps up to his jawline—a skull with roses bleeding from the eyes. He grins like he knows something, but I’ve seen that look before. I’m much more familiar with him, having played with him in past tournaments.

DJ’s known to bluff. His hands are restless, fingers twitching like he’s been freshly electrocuted. His hand is trash.

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