2. Lars
When I get back to the condo, I shrug out of my jacket and hang it in the closet, smoothing the sleeve.
The holster comes next, unclipped and sat carefully on the bed beside the spare magazines.
I line up my shoes, set my watch on the nightstand, and take a second to appreciate the quiet, then I strip and step into the shower.
I turn the water as hot as it will go. It borders on uncomfortable, but I welcome it.
The heat seeps into my shoulders and down my spine, easing tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying.
My muscles loosen, my breathing steadies, and by the time I turn off the water and towel off, I feel completely reset.
I dig into my duffel and grab a stack of wrapped bills.
I don’t know the blinds yet, but I grab enough to make sure I can defend my stack.
I opt for a black button down and jeans, then head back into the main room.
Hale’s card sits on the counter where I left it.
I slide it into my pocket and grab my keys.
The address pulls me into a stretch of Austin most people refuse to acknowledge—warehouse shells repurposed for transactions that shouldn’t see the light of day. Streetlights buzz overhead. Alleys sit dark and quiet and the air carries the weight of money that doesn’t move through banks.
I park in an adjacent lot and step out into the humid night air. Approaching the building, I see a single guard leaning against a steel door, cigarette ember glowing. He straightens when he sees me.
“Who sent you?” he asks, tone flat.
I pull out the card and hold it between two fingers.
His eyes flick to the name, then to me. He crushes the cigarette under his boot and knocks twice on the metal door.
It opens with the heavy click of a lock disengaging. Inside, the city noise dies instantly. Just the soft shuffle of chips, the taut snap of cards, and the promise of money drifting through the space.
A hostess behind a podium glances up. “Buy-in?” I drop a hundred grand between us. She nods, gestures toward the back. “Table four, seat six. Blinds are two-five.”
I take my place at the table, and a tray of chips is placed in front of me. I empty the tray, stacking them to my liking. Blinds are two thousand-five thousand. There’s nothing friendly about this game.
Then I survey the players. They match Hale’s description, old money and new money sit side by side. The usual mix of men who think money is the same as power.
And then in seat two, there’s a woman.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, a few strands slipping forward to brush her collarbone.
Her nails are an elegant, glossy nude. Her mouth—painted a dangerous shade of red—is curved in a way that says she knows exactly what she’s doing sitting at this table.
Dark eyes, more black than brown, shine with amusement.
Her attire is too stylish for a backroom game like this—a silk top, a delicate gold necklace resting at the hollow of her throat. She sits with a kind of confidence that borders on unnerving. She radiates calculation.
I clock her stack: healthy and organized. Her confidence isn’t performative—it’s the kind that’s built on results.
I call my blinds for a couple of rounds to get a feel for the table, then I start to play, winning a few sizable pots. I’m comfortable with my stack and finally feel like I can make some moves. When I’m dealt something decent—pocket sevens—a hand begins to unfold.
The kid in seat five has been hemorrhaging chips in the short time since I sat down. He’s in his mid-twenties and throwing around too much money. Arrogance radiates off him.
He raises big before the flop. I’m weary of a higher pair, and don’t care to dump my stack to a reckless player, so I fold.
She calls without blinking.
The dealer lays down the first three cards: Queen of Clubs, nine of Spades, four of Diamonds.
She checks; he fires out a stack of chips again.
She calls, slowly sliding her chips toward the center of the table. She leans back in her chair and smiles at him.
The turn gives them the Jack of Spades.
The kid grins—big, showy, idiotic. He looks at his cards like he wants to make sure he has what he remembers.
She checks again, tapping a single finger on the felt. He shoves a quarter of his stack toward the pot.
She pauses. Not for long, but enough to let the tension coil.
She looks at the dealer and points to the stack the kid pushed in.
“Can you count that for me please?” While the dealer counts, she watches him.
She’s reading him, seeing how he reacts to his money laid out across the felt in front of him.
The dealer speaks, letting her know it’s forty-eight thousand.
She places a chip on top of her cards and thinks for a moment before counting out a stack, eyes darting from the pot to her stack.
“Call.”
The kid’s face goes flat as she pushes her chips forward. “You’re kidding.”
She says nothing. Just lifts one eyebrow.
The dealer pulls the chips to the pot, burns a card and lays down the river: King of Hearts.
She barely glances at the card before pushing the rest of her stack in.
The kid looks like he’s about to break. “All of it? What the fuck did you hit with that King?”
She shrugs. “Maybe I was chasing something, but I also could’ve hit a piece of that flop. If you want to know, then, yes, all of it,” she says, voice controlled.
He glances at the pot, then back to his stack, tilting his head indecisively. His neck is turning a shade of pink, revealing he’s angry and embarrassed.
Then he folds.
The hand is over, she won the pot, so there’s no need for her to reveal her cards. But a slow smirk creeps upon her lips as she holds eye contact with him. Making sure he looks at her hand, she flips her cards. A six and seven of clubs.
A bluff. A beautifully constructed, ruthless bluff.
The kid shoots up from his chair. “You’re fucking insane!”
Her smile is radiant and merciless. “Don’t bring daddy’s money to an adult table if you don’t have the balls to call with pot odds like that.”
The table laughs. The kid storms off, his crippled stack left waiting at his seat.
I don’t join in the laughter, I’m too busy looking at her. I know she feels it when her eyes flick to mine. And then that pretty smile widens.
Heat coils low and tight in my spine. Because I’ve hunted men across continents, I’ve killed without hesitation, I’ve stared down monsters and become one—but this woman?
She just stole the room with a bluff and a smile. And I can already tell, she’s going to be a problem.