Chapter 2
KONSTANTIN
I watch the rat scurry into the maze.
From the dark observation deck overlooking the casino floor, Arthur Blackwood looks even smaller than I remember. Time hasn’t been kind to him. He’s graying, and his shoulders are slumped under the weight of a bespoke suit that hangs loose on his frame.
He wipes sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, his eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal.
He looks like a man running from ghosts. He has no idea he’s running straight toward the one ghost who is real. Me.
I see the bulge in his jacket pocket. The outline of a thick, folded document.
Good. He followed the instructions.
It wasn't hard to make him bring it. I had my intermediary tell him that Mr. Volkov only plays against men of substance. I demanded that anyone sitting at my table bring proof of assets equal to the potential pot.
Arthur thinks he brought the deed to prove he belongs in the room with no intention of betting it.
But I know addicts. I know the itch. Once the chips are down, once the desperation sets in... that deed won't be proof. It’ll be currency.
"He’s here," Lev says from the shadows behind me. My Lieutenant’s voice is a low rumble. "Right on schedule."
"Of course he is," I reply, not turning away from the glass. My reflection hovers over Arthur’s figure, a predator looming over its prey. "We starved him. Now he’s here to beg."
I adjust the cuffs of my tuxedo. Under the tailored wool, the tattoos on my wrists are hidden—the eight-pointed stars.
Tonight, I’m not Konstantin Morozov, the most feared enforcer of the Bratva. I’m merely Mr. Volkov, a wealthy foreigner with too much oil money and a drinking problem.
A "whale," as the pit bosses call men like me.
Arthur Blackwood thinks he’s walking into a game of chance. He thinks bad luck froze his shipment this morning. He thinks it’s a cruel coincidence that his biggest client, Apex Heavy Industries, threatened to sue his company.
He doesn't know that I’m the client. He doesn't know I ordered the hack.
He thinks he’s dealing with a faceless company. He has no idea that the company is nothing more than a weapon I bought three months ago, so I could hold a knife to his throat.
I watch him walk to the VIP table. He grabs a drink from a waiter, his hand shaking violently. He downs it in one gulp. He looks desperate. I like them that way.
"The room is safe?" I ask, keeping my eyes on Arthur.
"Ivan has disabled the cameras," Lev says. "The dealer is ours. The other two players at the table work for us. They’ll fold when you signal. There’s no way out."
"And the drink?"
"The best scotch. Just the way he likes it. We’ll keep his glass full."
I turn from the window and look at my reflection in the glass. The scar running from my jaw to my collarbone is hidden in the dark, but I can feel it itching. It always itches when I’m close to him. It’s a memory of the fire.
My hand moves to my chest, touching the spot where the metal hit my father.
I remember the smell of the hospital room. I remember the way my father gripped my hand. He was weak, but his eyes burned with the only thing that kept him alive: Hate.
The piece of metal in his chest had poisoned him slowly, turning a lion into a husk, but his anger was still alive.
"Take everything from him, Kostya," he whispered, his final command branding my soul.
I made a vow that night. I promised the corpse of my father that I would not just kill him.
Death is too easy.
I promised I would break him. I would take his name, his legacy, and pride, until he was begging for the bullet.
"It’s time to collect," I say.
I step out of the shadows.
The VIP room smells of expensive cigars and whiskey. The poker table glows under the light.
When I sit down opposite my father, he doesn't even look at me. He’s too busy staring at his chips, his hands trembling as he shuffles them.
He sees the expensive suit and the watch. He sees the arrogance I project like a shield.
What he doesn't see is the truth and the thirteen-year-old boy who watched his sister burn alive because of his greed.
"Mr. Volkov," Arthur says. He forces a smile, but his eyes are terrified. "I hear you enjoy high stakes. The boss tells me you’re looking for action."
I signal the waitress to pour him another drink. She obeys instantly, filling his glass to the brim.
"I enjoy winning, Mr. Blackwood," I say. I make my accent thick, sounding like a man bored by privilege. "But yes, I have money to burn. And I hear you like to play."
"I take risks," he says, swallowing his drink. "Calculated risks."
Liar, I think. You haven't calculated a risk in twenty years. You just close your eyes and pray.
The dealer shuffles the cards.
We play.
It’s a slow kill.
For the first hour, I play the fool. I make bad bets. I let Arthur win pot after pot.
I watch him relax. He drinks more. He sits up straighter, more confident and laughing.
The sound grates on my nerves.
I remember that laugh. I remember hearing it echo in my father's study twenty years ago. Back then, it was warm. Now, it sounds like a shovel hitting dirt.
I grip my glass so hard that I fear it might shatter. Still, I welcome the pain.
The fear in his eyes is replaced by arrogance.
He thinks he’s tricking me. He looks at the other two players—my men, though he doesn't know it—and offers them a pitying look when they fold.
Drink, you pig, I think.
I look at my cards—a pair of Queens. It’s a winning hand, but I fold. I let him take the money with a weak pair of sixes.
"Fatten yourself up for the slaughter," I mutter.
"You play loose, Mr. Volkov," Arthur says, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and victory. He gestures to the waitress for another round. "Very loose."
"I don't worry about money," I reply, tossing a chip to the dealer. "Money is like water. It flows."
Arthur laughs.
I watch him over the rim of my glass. I know secrets that would make him sick. How he didn't stumble into debt. How he has paid the Moretti crime family for years.
The Italians.
The same people who killed my family.
They have been bleeding him dry.
By 2:00 AM, Arthur has a huge pile of chips in front of him. Almost two hundred thousand dollars.
His expression beams with triumph. The fool thinks he has saved his company. He thinks he’s safe.
I look at Lev. He gives a small nod.
It’s time.
"Last hand," I say, faking a yawn.
I tap my finger on the table.
Once.
Twice.
A meaningless gesture to anyone watching, but the dealer spots it.
He’s a young man with slicked-back hair and sweat on his upper lip. He catches my eye for a fraction of a second.
He gives the deck a single, sharp cut. The trap is set.
He practiced the move for three weeks in my basement, perfecting it, knowing that if he messes up, he loses a hand. Literally.
Arthur looks at his chips. It’s not enough. He needs more to pay his debts. Far more. He needs a miracle.
"One last hand," he agrees. "No limit?"
"No limit," I confirm.
The dealer gives us our cards. I don't look at mine straight away. I watch Arthur instead and enjoy the show.
His eyes go wide as he takes in his cards. It’s a tell so obvious that a child could catch it. He has a monster hand.
The dealer places cards on the table. Ace. King. King.
Then comes a ten.
Arthur breathes out shakily. He bets a hundred thousand—almost half his money. Overconfidence and greed in the face of ruin. Any reasonable man would have taken his winnings and won, but no, not this reckless asshole.
"I raise," I say, pushing my chips forward. "Two hundred thousand."
Arthur freezes. He does the math. But he calls. He’s in too deep to stop now.
The last card falls. Another ace.
Arthur stares at it. With the king in his hand, he’s holding a Full House—Aces full of Kings. It’s a hand that almost never loses.
He looks at his chips, then at me, nearly trembling in disbelief at his change in fortune.
"I’m all in," he says, shoving the rest of his chips into the center.
"I raise," I say instantly.
I push my entire tower of chips forward. Two million dollars.
The sound of the chips hitting the table is like a gunshot. The room goes silent. The other players fold immediately, backing away as if the table were on fire.
Arthur stares at the mountain of chips. He looks at his own empty spot on the table. He doesn't have the cash to cover the bet.
"I... I don't have that much on me," he stammers, eyeballing every corner of the room in desperation, as if the money will fall from the sky to save him. "'I can write an IOU—a note saying I owe the money. The house knows me."
"The house does not take IOUs for two million dollars," I reply coldly. "If you cannot match the bet, you lose the hand. You walk away with nothing."
"No!" He slams his hand on the table. "I have the winning hand! I can't fold! You can't do this!"
"Then pay to see the cards," I say, leaning forward. "Put something on the table worth two million dollars."
Arthur struggles to breathe, cornered like the rat he is.
He fumbles in his jacket pocket, hand trembling as he pulls out a folded document.
The Deed.
"The Blackwood Shipping Company," he says as he unfolds the heavy paper. It’s embossed with his family’s gold seal. "It’s worth ten times this bet. I’m betting my company."
I don't say a word.
He signs his name at the bottom of the paper and tosses it onto the pile of chips. It lands softly.
"Call," he whispers.
I let the silence stretch, allowing him taste hope one last time, letting him savor the last drops.
Then, slowly, I flip my cards.
Ace. Ace.
Four aces.
Arthur pales as if he’s taken a shotgun blast to the abdomen.
He stares at the cards, his mouth opening and closing. He can't speak or seem to process the truth of what he’s done.
"A Full House is a good hand, Arthur," I say, dropping the fake accent completely. My voice becomes the cold, sharp rasp that my men know. "But it doesn't beat four of a kind."
He slumps in his chair. "No... no, that’s not... I can't..."
"You lost," I say. I signal Lev.
From the shadows, my guards step forward. They lock the doors with a loud click. The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The warm, casual gambling vibe vanishes, replaced by the icy chill of the Bratva.
Arthur looks around, finally realizing the cage has closed.
He glances at the guards, then back at me. He detects the change in my posture. The drunk smile is gone.
"Who... who are you?" he stammers.
I stand up, slowly unbuttoning my cuffs to roll up my sleeves, revealing the thick, black ink on my wrists. The eight-pointed stars. The mark of a Captain.
Heat floods his face. He knows what they mean.
"You don't recognize me, Arthur?" I walk around the table until I’m standing over him, blocking the light. "You used to come to my house for dinner. You bought me my first chess set when I was ten years old. Don’t you remember?"
He looks up at me, terrified, searching my face for the boy behind the scars.
"Morozov?" he breathes. The name sounds like a curse. "Viktor's... boy?"
"Konstantin Morozov," I correct.
He doesn't run. He just... collapses, sinking lower in his chair.
He’s defeated. Deflated. Like he has been waiting for this moment for twenty years.
"I knew," he mutters. "I knew the devil would come eventually."
"The devil waits until you die," I say.
I collect the deed from the table.
"I don't."
I look at the paper. The Blackwood Shipping empire is mine. The ships, the warehouses, the routes. I’ve taken back what he stole from my father.
Still, it isn't enough.
"This is worthless," I say.
I toss the deed back at him. It slides off his chest and lands on the floor.
He blinks, stunned. "What? That company is worth fifty million dollars!"
"That company has debts," I say softly. "It owes the bank ten million. And the port authority, two million."
I lean in.
"You didn't just bet a company, Arthur. You bet a debt."
He loses what little color he has left in his face.
"So here is the problem," I continue, "You bet two million in chips. You paid me with a negative asset. Which means, by the rules of this table, you still owe me the buy-in."
Arthur starts to shake. "It’s all I have! Please! I have nothing left."
"Exactly," I say. " You are insolvent. And when a debtor cannot pay in cash, the House collects in… other ways."
I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of his chair, trapping him. "To make this deed worth my time… to make sure I don't peel the skin off your bones right here in this chair… I require an asset that actually holds value. I need collateral."
"Collateral?" He looks up, tears running down his face. "I have nothing left, Konstantin. You took it all."
"You have a daughter," I say quietly.
He freezes. He can barely breathe.
"No. No, not Helena. Please. Take the house. Take my life. Don’t touch her."
"I’m not asking, Arthur." I straighten, turning my back on him. I walk to the window, looking out at the city lights.
"You see, I know this company is worthless in your hands," I say, speaking to his reflection in the glass. "You are a drunk who hasn't done any real work in years."
I turn to face him again.
"But your daughter? People say she’s the one keeping the company going. She’s the only thing of value you have."
"She’s innocent!" he screams. He tries to stand, but Lev pushes him back down.
"So was my sister!" I shout.
Arthur flinches, his expression sobering as he remembers everything.
"You traded my family to the Morettis for your selfish gain," I say, my voice shaking with anger. "You bought your life with their blood. Now, I’m buying my future with yours."
I nod to Lev. "Bring him. We’re going to pay Miss Helena Blackwood a visit."
Lev pulls Arthur to his feet. The old man is sobbing now, broken and defeated.
"She’ll hate you," Arthur hisses. "She’ll never bend."
I smile. It’s not a nice smile.
"I don't need her to bend, Arthur. I need her to break."
I keep my sleeves rolled up, so he can see the scars as I lift the deed from the floor and slip it in my pocket.
The trap is closed.
Now, it’s time to collect the prize.