Page 37 of The Devil's Thorn
Not by much. But enough.
Next hand—third of the night. Now the table is listening. No more polite bets. No more testing waters.
Rafael gets dealt Ace of Clubs and Queen of Diamonds. He doesn’t react. But I see the slight tension in his jaw. He likes the hand.
The flop comes: Queen of Spades. Eight of Hearts. Five of Clubs.
Rafael raises.
The woman folds.
Mikhail hesitates. Calls.
Silent man calls.
Turn flips: Ace of Diamonds.
Two pair.
I shift slightly, watching their expressions. Mikhail blinks too fast. The silent one—he shifts in his seat, thumb twitching once against the stack of chips.
They’re covering.
Rafael doesn’t wait. He raises again. Larger this time.
The pot swells.
Mikhail folds.
Silent man calls again.
River: Ten of Spades.
No help.
Rafael glances at his opponent’s stack, then slides his chips forward.
“All in.”
The table goes quiet. The air gets thicker.
I feel the heat of his calm from here, radiating like control personified.
The man doesn’t move.
Then he folds.
Rafael says nothing. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t gloat.
He just reaches forward and drags the mountain of chips toward him with one hand, slow and precise.
Victory wrapped in silence.
My breath exhales slowly behind him.
He leans back in his seat, lifting his glass again, and takes a single sip—still without looking up at me.
But the tension?
