Page 115 of I See You

“Clean,” she replied, arms crossing under her chest. “Count’s running every hour. Security’s on it. Nobody’s breathing wrong back there.”

Hassan exhaled smoke, the burn easing his nerves just a little. Tinka’s words settled something in him—not everything, but enough to keep the monster in his chest at bay. For now.

“And Odell?” Hassan asked, his jaw tight as his eyes scanned the floor.

Tinka sighed, already annoyed just at the mention of the man’s name.Odellwasaforty-somethingregular—filthyrich,loudas hell, and never knew when to quit. He was the kind of customerwho brought in serious money but always came with chaos. Drunk outbursts, losing streak tantrums, claims of rigged games. Hassan had let him slide for months, only because he paid well and hadn’t crossed the line—yet.

“Still here. Still betting. Still losing,” Tinka said, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s back at roulette, swearing it’s rigged. Again.”

Hassan shook his head slowly, irritation simmering behind his calm exterior. “What’s he down tonight?”

“Little over ten grand,” she replied, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. “Man’s got the persistence of a stalker. I need a man that committed.”

But Hassan didn’t even blink at her joke. No smile. No reaction.

His eyes were locked in on the mess across the room. “And still thinks he can win it back.”

“Like clockwork,” she muttered, following his gaze. Odell was slouched over the blackjack table now—red-faced, waving his drink around, slurring curses at the dealer. “Want me to bounce him?”

“Not yet,” Hassan said, sipping his cognac. “Let him spiral a little more. He’s still got two cards we didn’t max last time. Once he taps those out, then walk him.”

Tinka gave a slow nod. “You got it.” She started to turn, then paused. “Want me to cut off his drinks?”

“Nah,” Hassan said, his tone low and final. “Let him drown in it.” Tinka smirked, nodded again, and disappeared into the crowd.

Hassan’seyesneverleftOdell—watchinghimunravel,drink in hand, shouting into the noise like a man still pretending he had control.

Hassan made his way back toward his office, the low hum of the casino wrapping around him like static. But before he could reach the stairs, Bully stepped in front of him.

“Got a guest, Boss,” Bully said, nodding behind him.

“Ain’t no fucking guest, nigga. I basically raised this fool,” a familiarvoicecutinasJulessteppedfrombehindhim,hisenergy loudlike always, commanding space like he owned it.

Hassan’s face broke into a rare grin. “Let’s talk in my office.” “Damn,that’sit?Idon’tgetnotourofthisbillion-dollar playground?” Jules said with a grin, clapping Hassan on the back. “Nigga got money and turned corporate on me.”

Hassan let out a chuckle, low and genuine, before turning on his heel. “Come on, old man. I’ll show you around.”

They moved through the casino floor, and Hassan gave him the condensed version of the tour—Tinka giving orders, high rollers tucked in private lounges, a stacked bar, and a security team tight enough to guard a presidential motorcade. Jules took it all in with quiet pride, his smile deepening with every step. He remembered when Hassan was just a broken kid with blood on his hands and fire in his eyes, sleeping with a knife under his pillow, chasing ghosts in the dark. Now, that same boy was walking through a kingdom he built from grit and pain.

By the time they made it to Hassan’s office, the pride in Jules’s eyes was damn near glowing.

“This shit fire, man,” Jules said, settling into one of the leather chairs. “I’m proud of you, for real.”

Hassan nodded, a flicker of emotion crossing his normally unreadable face. He walked to the box on his shelf, grabbed two cigars, and tossed one over. “Still like the Cubans?”

“You know I do. You still got that good Henny too?” Jules asked with a smirk.

Hassan pulled the bottle from his cabinet like he was waiting on the question. “You already know.”

This was more than just a catch-up. This was two wolves with history, war stories, and survival in their bones—one who paved the way, and the other who took it further than either of them thought possible.

“So about this case you got yourself caught up in…” Jules said, a thick cloud of cigar smoke curling from his lips as he swirled the dark Hennessy in his glass. His voice was low, calm—but what followed punched with weight. “They tryna pin that Desmond nigga on money laundering. But they looking into you for much worse.”

Hassan's eyes cut to him sharp, his jaw flexing as his entire body stiffened. “All my shit clean,” he said flatly. His tone was composed, but the edge in his voice betrayed the storm brewing underneath.

Jules didn’t flinch. “You left one thing unclean.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a file, thick and aged like it had been sitting in silence for years—waiting. Hassan took it without a word, but the minute he opened it, time stopped.

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