Baccarat

Evenings in Vegas are never boring. They unfold slowly, like honey poured from a jar, glowing with neon gold and promising far more than they’ll ever deliver. In the city of sin, everyone finds the kind of entertainment they’re looking for—loud or quiet, harmless or dangerous. But whichever path you choose, sooner or later it leads to a casino. And who knows? Maybe tonight luck will finally choose you. Then again, if you’re actually counting on luck, you’re better off turning around and going home.

I glanced at the man across the table. His hands rested on the felt, casually showing off a brand-new watch. A Vacheron Constantin. Good taste. If you owned a collection like that, losing a few thousand dollars at poker probably wasn’t the kind of thing that kept you awake at night.

He caught me looking and held my gaze. I gave him the faintest smile before immediately losing interest. The opening hand was being dealt.

As always, the dealer’s face was a perfect blank. He slid two cards to each player with practiced precision, moving clockwise around the table. I looked at the man with the expensive watch one last time, then lifted the corner of my cards with my thumbnail.

There are a few rules worth remembering when you sit down at a poker table. Rule number one: never trust your opponents. Beginners break that one all the time. Rule number two: never play with money you can’t afford to lose. Almost everyone breaks that one. Rule number three: never count on luck. That’s Vegas’s favorite rule of all—convincing people that tonight is finally their night.

But there’s one rule that matters more than the rest. No matter what cards you’re dealt, never show emotion.

And my hand was spectacularly bad. Seven of spades and two of hearts. About as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

The player to my right pushed a stack of colorful chips into the pot, flicking them forward with the casual ease of someone tossing out a receipt. Too young. Expensive suit. Perfectly starched shirt. Someone’s son? A rich bride’s fiancé? A crypto investor? My money was on the second option.

“Bet,” he said.

“Call,” the man with the watch replied almost immediately.

I let a few seconds pass. In poker, as in life, rushing is a mistake. People love fast decision-makers. Usually because they’re easier to beat.

“I call.”

The dealer swept the chips into the center, squared the pot with the side of his hand, and glanced away for a fraction of a second.

There it was. The moment I’d been waiting for.

Keeping my expression perfectly neutral, I covered my cards with my hand as though I were simply shielding them from the other players. A routine poker gesture. Nothing suspicious. In reality, it was something else entirely. The instant my palm touched the felt, the card hidden in my sleeve slipped effortlessly into place, and the weak card disappeared just as silently into the fold of my jacket.

One second. That was all it took to change the outcome of the game. I didn’t bother looking around to see if anyone had noticed my little trick. Not because I was arrogant. Because I knew they hadn’t. People rarely notice what they’re not expecting to see.

The dealer spread the flop: ten, jack, four. A few players sighed in disappointment and folded. The young guy in the expensive suit muttered a curse under his breath, tossed his cards away, and another player followed him out of the hand.

The man with the watch smiled faintly, as though the flop had given him exactly what he wanted. His fingers moved confidently across the edges of his chips.

I let my gaze rest on the board for a moment. A barely perceptible crease appeared between my brows, and he noticed it. His lips curled into a quick, satisfied smile before he shoved all his chips into the pot.

He looked at me with a slight tilt of his head. His expression said everything.

All in.

I glanced at his mountain of chips and quietly pushed mine forward. The dealer turned the turn card.

Queen.

Confidence settled across the man’s face. He tapped his fingers against the edge of the table as though he were already celebrating. I could practically see him counting my chips before the hand was even over.

Idiot.

By the time the dealer placed the river, the man was almost glowing with excitement. The money itself didn’t matter all that much. The thrill of winning did. The endorphins were already flooding his system, promising the perfect ending to the perfect night.

“Pair of queens,” he said calmly, laying his cards on the table and giving me a patronizing look.

I took my time. I ran my fingers slowly over the smooth surface of my cards, letting him savor one more second of triumph. People rarely appreciate moments like that. They should. Sometimes the best part of winning is letting your opponent believe he already has.

I smiled.

“Three tens.”

I turned my cards over.

His smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. Victory drained from his face, replaced by emptiness and the kind of disappointment casinos sell better than any liquor ever could.

Without a word, I gathered my chips and stood, not sparing anyone a glance.

The game was over.

By the time I walked out of the casino, dawn was creeping over the horizon. I stretched lazily, my back aching from hours at the poker table. Running a hand through my hair, I let out a tired sigh, fished my keys from my pocket, and headed for the parking lot. The city was only beginning to wake up, but this part of Vegas never slept.

The neon still blazed against the pale morning sky, bright enough to sting my eyes even at sunrise. Engines roared without pause. Every few seconds, laughter erupted from the lucky and quiet sobs drifted from people who had just lost everything they thought they could afford. Las Vegas was a city built on victories and defeats, and the second happened far more often than the first.

My red convertible stood out among the dull gray sedans and the collection of battered cars that should have been in a junkyard years ago. I pressed the button on my key fob, and the car answered with a short, almost smug chirp, as if it were greeting me back.

I opened the door and sank into the black leather seat. From the inside pocket of my jacket, I pulled out two thick bundles of cash wrapped in rubber bands and tossed them into the glove compartment without a second thought. Then I closed my eyes for a few seconds and simply breathed. Who says cheating is easy? It always takes more out of you than it looks like it should.

Somewhere in the distance, a chorus of drunken cheers echoed across the parking lot. Probably a bachelor party. Classic Vegas. A groom and his friends had come to trade their hard-earned money for a quick hit of dopamine and the illusion of freedom.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to open my eyes. If I sat there for one more minute, I wasn’t making it home. Exhaustion was catching up with me, my eyelids heavy as lead, but I still turned the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life, the vibration humming beneath my hands. I slapped myself lightly across the cheek to shake off the worst of the fatigue, gripped the steering wheel, and eased onto the gas.

The convertible rolled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. The only thing working in my favor was the lack of traffic. I pressed a button on the dashboard, and the roof began to close with a muted mechanical whir. Cool air rushed over my face, sweeping my hair back.

I loved this moment. The sharp rush of wind, the empty road before sunrise, the rare silence that existed only in the space between night and morning. At times like these, the world almost felt like it made sense.

But I loved the sound of slot machines just as much. The rustle of cash. The roar of a packed casino floor. That world was as natural to me as water is to a fish. I didn’t just exist there—I hunted.

If gambling were an art form, I’d be one of its masters. What set me apart from most cheats wasn’t skill alone. It was instinct. I knew how to win, but I also knew how to lose. I knew when to walk away so I could come back later and take something much bigger.

Most people in my line of work burned themselves down with greed—plain, ordinary greed—and paid for it dearly. I played differently. Caution had become my closest ally. I knew perfectly well that one day I’d get caught. My only goal was to put that day off for as long as possible.

Until then, I had no intention of living modestly. Clubs? Absolutely. Parties? Of course. Another ridiculously expensive toy? Why not? Money slipped through my fingers as fast as it came in. I wasn’t working two jobs like my father, counting every dollar like my mother, or saving my life for some imaginary future.

And I never felt sorry for the people I beat. I looked at those who pushed their last chips onto red with nothing but contempt, and I had no problem letting my opponents feel superior for a few glorious seconds before dropping them straight into the abyss of disappointment.

That was just who I was.

The car glided smoothly along the winding road, leaving a faint trail of dust behind it. The first rays of sunlight had already reached the desert floor by the time I pulled into my driveway. My house was modest, with a neatly trimmed lawn, and somehow it managed to feel both familiar and strangely foreign. I’d furnished it exactly the way I wanted, ignoring every designer’s opinion, but it had never become a place I actually looked forward to coming back to. Out of six rooms, I only really lived in one, and even there the walls seemed permanently steeped in cold and loneliness.

My friends were constantly trying to set me up with someone who could supposedly fix that loneliness, but either our taste in people was catastrophically different, or my friends had terrible judgment. Every date ended almost before it began. Once I even set a personal record—I lasted a full thirty minutes with a girl they’d insisted was perfect for me. It ended with a glass of red wine all over my pristine white shirt and in my hair. Men were easier, but those relationships never lasted either. A hookup, a few dates, and that was the entire story of my romantic success.

At one point, I seriously considered getting a dog, just so someone would be waiting for me when I got home. I abandoned the idea out of pity. A dog deserved better than an owner who disappeared every night and might one day get shot over a rigged game.

After parking the car, I headed upstairs and shrugged off my jacket before I even made it into the bedroom. My shirt, belt, and pants followed it onto the floor. I grabbed an oversized T-shirt from the chair nearby, pulled it on, and collapsed onto the bed. The cool sheets made me shiver, but within seconds exhaustion won, and I was asleep.

Waking up was considerably less pleasant.

My phone yanked me out of a perfectly good dream, ringing loud enough to make me swear I’d murder whoever had dared call me. Without opening my eyes, I reached for the nightstand, but the phone wasn’t there.

“Fuck.”

Dragging myself out of bed, I stumbled toward the pile of clothes where it had inevitably disappeared. Terrible habit. I kicked my pants aside, shoved a hand into my jacket pocket, and felt around for the phone.

“And which asshole are you?” I muttered, pulling it out. I glanced at the screen and immediately rolled my eyes. “Of course.”

I sighed, already knowing exactly who it was.

“Yeah, Josh?” I said, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Did I wake you up?”

I looked at the time.

5:07 p.m.

“Yeah. And for the record, you did wake me up. Again.”

Josh was one of the few people I could honestly call a friend. He could wake me in the middle of the day without getting a string of insults in return. He could show up at my house unannounced, and I’d still open the door.

The funny thing was, Josh knew surprisingly little about me. He had my phone number, my address, and the vague understanding that I made my living playing cards.

We met when we were both looking for company. I’d just moved to Vegas and wandered into a club in search of something strong enough to make the city feel less unfamiliar. Josh happened to be sitting on the stool next to mine. A few complaints about the terrible music, a handful of inappropriate jokes, and before long we were swapping numbers and ordering another round of tequila from the bartender.

Over the years, Josh had collected an entire orbit of friends. He drifted through an endless rotation of parties and hookups, often forgetting people’s names by the next morning. But he never forgot to call me, invite me into whatever chaos he was planning, or spend an hour talking about absolutely nothing.

We didn’t have deep conversations. We didn’t give each other advice. That was probably why I liked him. There was no judgment, no digging into feelings, no relentless questions about what was going on in my head. Just good company and a chance to forget my own problems for a while.

“I’ll get straight to it,” he said. I could hear the ocean in the background, along with seagulls and the kind of ambient noise that only came with an expensive stretch of coastline. “I’m in Europe for work right now, but when I get back I’m throwing a party. Everyone’s coming. You in?”

“Everyone” meant the same loud crowd that had practically turned Josh’s house into a permanent social experiment. I found them mildly exhausting, but I didn’t mind spending a few hours with them every now and then.

“Sure. Just give me at least a day’s notice so I can keep the evening free.”

Josh clicked his tongue. I was almost certain he’d rolled his eyes too.

“I always forget how ridiculously busy you are. CEOs are easier to get a meeting with than you.”

“Then why don’t you party with the CEOs instead?”

He laughed.

“What would I do without you? You’re the only person in my life who doesn’t kiss my ass and actually says what you think. Although ‘insults me relentlessly’ is probably more accurate.”

“If that’s your idea of friendship, I’ve got bad news. You’re a masochist.”

“I think that’s excellent news.”

Voices drifted through the phone. Someone was arguing in a language I didn’t recognize.

“I’d love to keep trading compliments, but I have to go. I’ll text you about the party.”

After we hung up, I was alone again. I looked around the bedroom. Shirts, suits, and pocket squares in every color and pattern imaginable were scattered across the room like someone had ransacked a luxury boutique. The mess was impressive, especially considering it was worth more than most people’s monthly rent.

I let out another sigh. For a few seconds, I had the same debate I always did: clean it up or pretend it didn’t exist. Unfortunately, the responsible side won.

I started gathering clothes from the floor, the ottoman, the lamp, and even the decorative statues, which had somehow ended up wearing my wardrobe.

Once the room was finally clean, I remembered I hadn’t eaten. The refrigerator was empty, as usual, and the nearest grocery store was a fifteen-minute drive away. That was more than enough reason to order delivery.

I picked up the steak and salad I’d ordered from a restaurant, uncorked a bottle of wine, and poured the deep burgundy liquid into a glass. I let it breathe for a few seconds before taking the first sip. The dry, tannic flavor unfolded slowly across my tongue.

That was how most of my days went. Me, a single place setting, and a bottle of wine that would be empty within the hour.

After I finished the last glass, I left the dirty dishes in the sink and went back to my room. Now I could get to work.

I opened my laptop and pulled up a spreadsheet from my desktop. This was the part of the job I hated most, but it was every bit as important as the game itself. It was what kept me out of trouble.

The spreadsheet was simple, almost painfully dull to look at, but it contained everything that mattered: casino names, the dates of my visits, and the results of my most recent games. Some entries were marked loss. Others win.

No matter how exhausted I was, I never skipped this ritual. After every trip to a casino, I opened the file and logged the new information carefully, never missing a single session. In my business, memory was a terrible accountant. People forgot dates, faces, and amounts, then acted surprised when one mistake started costing them more than they could afford.

“Olympus,” I murmured, quickly finding the right row. “Win.”

My fingers moved across the keyboard. When I finished updating the file, I scrolled through it slowly, reading each line with deliberate care. I never chose a casino at random, as if I were chasing luck. Every decision I made was calculated. Time, date, previous results—every detail mattered, and every detail shaped my next target.

The whole system would have been pointless if I were just another gambling addict capable of losing a fortune at the roulette table in a single night. But when you’re the one who usually wins, caution stops being a habit and becomes a necessity.

My phone vibrated again, cutting through the silence. I glanced at the screen.

Mom.

I stared at her name for a few seconds. My thumb hovered over the green button. Almost. The screen kept glowing, the persistent vibration filling the room. Slowly, I turned the phone face down and declined the call.

It was wrong to punish her for something that wasn’t really her fault. But I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t.

I sat there for another minute, staring at nothing, then took a deep breath and looked back at the monitor. My eyes settled on the name Casino Le Royal. I skimmed through the notes from my previous visits, weighing whether it was the right place for my next game.

The decision took less than a minute. My next casino had been chosen.