11. Shut up and play the game
SHUT UP AND PLAY THE GAME
“Cole, care to join a round?” One of the district attorneys laughed out loud as he sipped his whiskey.
This one was a cocky son of a bitch, the one that incarcerated me a year ago.
Of course, it was all manufactured, a show for the public.
The truth was that most of the government either participated in or turned a blind eye to these situations.
If a rapist and murderer can become a senator without anyone being the wiser, then who’s saying they wouldn’t be higher up in the government?
Money, greed, and power all make the world go around.
I paused at the bar and ordered a drink before turning to survey the room.
I hated the backrooms. I didn’t care to bet money on whether someone would be bluffing, but I needed information and this was the best way to get it.
The club was something of a front for everything; sure, they were a legitimate business as any country club would be, but here these men could wine and dine as they pleased.
The backroom was the surface of it all. Sure, it was an actual gentleman’s club, with golfing and pickleball and whatever crap the old geezers found entertaining, but these rooms were special.
A hidden tunnel system around the golf course connected to the main building.
Well-dressed men would use the front entrance, while thugs like myself used a back entrance.
No one cared as long as your money was good.
There was, of course, a strict non-disclosure, and if anything happened to leak, well, that was my side of the business.
I took a sip of the drink while watching the play.
“Sure, what’s the entry fee?” I smirked, coming around the large poker table and nodding towards the dealer.
He stood ready to deal me in, no words. Not that the man could speak without his tongue.
The room was staffed with mutes, some of them born, some of them made.
They were compensated well as long as they did their jobs.
“Five to sit. Two thousand minimum if you plan on staying,” the attorney said, swirling his whiskey. I let out a quiet breath through my nose, unimpressed, and tossed in a thicker stack of chips.
A chair scraped softly as I took my seat. “Wouldn’t be much of a game otherwise.”
A few of the men at the table glanced up at that, just enough to spark interest. The dealer flicked two cards toward me.
They stopped just short of my hand. I didn’t touch them right away.
Instead, I leaned back slightly, letting my gaze drift across the table as if I were more interested in the players than the game itself.
The attorney sat to my right. Across from him, a woman in a tailored suit — sharp lines, sharper eyes. She didn’t smile, didn’t speak, just watched like she already knew how this would end.
Congress.
To her left sat the commissioner, shoulders relaxed but gaze steady, tracking every movement at the table as if it actually mattered. It didn’t. Not the cards, anyway.
Further down, an older man adjusted his cufflinks — subtle, expensive. A judge, if I had to guess. The kind that didn’t need to raise his voice to ruin someone’s life.
Tucked beside him, a man with an easy grin and a glass that never emptied. Media. Of course. Beside him was a banker who didn’t bother to hide the fact.
“Quite the table tonight,” I muttered, glancing between them as the dealer shuffled again.
“Only the best,” the attorney said, already reaching for his drink.
“Or the worst,” the media man added lightly. “Depends who’s writing the story.”
A few chuckles passed around. The commissioner didn’t laugh. His eyes flicked to me instead. Stayed there a second too long. Noted. The dealer placed the cards. I picked mine up more slowly this time. Let them look. Let them think they were reading me.
“Your father ever play?” The media man asked, swirling his drink as if it were mere idle curiosity.
I glanced down at my cards, letting a second stretch longer than necessary.
Then I gave a faint huff of a laugh.
“More than he should.”
That got a reaction. Not loud, but enough.
The attorney smirked. “Man’s got a hell of a poker face.”
“Depends who you ask” I said, sliding a chip forward. “I’ve seen him fold hands he should’ve taken.”
The commissioner’s gaze sharpened slightly at that. The Congresswoman leaned back in her chair, studying me now instead of the table.
“He doesn’t come around often,” she said carefully.
I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter either way. “No. But when he does… people notice.”
The judge adjusted his sleeve, voice quiet when he finally spoke.
“They make room.”
There it was, hierarchy confirmed.
I let it sit for a minute, then nodded as if it was expected.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “They do.”
The dealer placed the next card. I barely looked at it.
“Play with him much?” the media man pressed, curiosity sharpening just a touch. I tapped the table, considering my hand as if that was the question that mattered.
“Enough to know when he’s not just here for the game.”
Silence — brief, but heavier now.
The attorney chuckled, trying to cut through it. “Nobody’s ever just here for the game.”
I met his eyes then, just for a second.
“No,” I agreed softly. “They’re not.” I pushed my cards forward. “Fold.”
The chips moved again. Another hand. Another round of meaningless cards.
I barely looked at mine; I didn’t need to.
“Quiet lately,” the banker noted, almost absentmindedly. “Things slow down without … central leadership.”
There it was, not subtle or accidental.
I let my thumb drag across the card as if I were contemplating the play, giving them time to think.
“Midas doesn’t like staying in one place too long,” I said evenly. “Bad for business.”
The attorney snorted. “Or bad for control.”
A few smirks passed around the table. The commissioner didn’t smile; his eyes were on me again. Waiting and testing.
The congresswoman tilted her head slightly. “And yet the operations haven’t stalled.”
Not a question, but a trap. I set a chip forward, slow and deliberate, as if I had something to play.
“Why would they?” I asked.
The dealer placed the flop. Nobody spoke for a second. That silence? That was the shift.
The media man lunged forward just slightly, “So he trusts you to keep things … running?”
I shrugged, as if it weren’t worth my attention. Like I wasn’t sitting at the center of the question.
“Someone has to make sure nothing falls apart while he’s gone.”
The attorney chuckled, but it didn’t land the same way this time. “That sounds like a promotion.”
I met his eyes — just long enough.
“Temporary responsibility,” I corrected.
Not denial and not confirmation.
The commissioner finally spoke, voice low.
“Temporary power has a way of becoming permanent.”
There it was: a warning or a challenge.
I leaned back slightly, folding my cards without even pretending to consider the hand.
“Only if someone lets it,” I said.
Then I pushed my chips forward — a small loss, intentional.
“Fold.”
The attorney pulled the pot again, but no one was watching the cards anymore.
The hallway was quieter than the backrooms, carpeted and clean.
I had a cigarette poised at my lips, ready to strike the match.
My lighter mysteriously disappeared with my wife.
It felt like déjà vu all over again. This time I had her, and that damned doctor followed.
Pulling out my phone, I brought up her contact.
My hand hovered over her number as I contemplated telling her how fucking sorry I was for losing Gabriella.
How much my heart ached losing the last thread that held Summer to me.
I would move heaven and hell to bring her home.
The tones from the ringer sounded in my ear as I waited for her to pick up. I lit the cigarette, waiting for something, anything, but there was nothing. It rang without an answer, and I sighed.
“Cole.”
I didn’t turn right away; instead, I took another inhale from the cigarette. I already knew who had said my name.
The commissioner stepped up beside me anyway, hands in his pockets, posture loose, but his tone far from it.
“You asked a lot of questions in there,” he said.
“I made conversation.”
“You don’t strike me as the type.”
He was right; I hated small talk. I glanced at him unimpressed, “You strike me as someone who pays too much attention to things that don’t concern him.”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. I flicked some ash away as I leaned against the wall. Unbothered on the outside but bouncing with energy inward.
“Everything in that room concerns me.”
Of course it did.
I crossed one ankle over the other as if I had nowhere else to go, taking another hit of nicotine.
“What do you want?”
He studied me for a second; I continued my slow, unimpressed manner as I waited for it.
“Things haven’t slowed down.” He said.
Not random or casual. My gaze didn’t shift.
“Should they have?”
“With Midas out of the country?” He countered.
There it was again.
Midas. Always fucking Midas.
I shrugged lightly. “Business doesn’t stop because one man gets on a plane.”
“No,” he agreed. “It doesn’t.”
There was a pause; it took every nerve in my body to remain still.
“In fact,” he continued, “from what I’ve seen… revenue’s up.”
That irritated me. Not visibly, but enough to cement it in my head. I kept my expression neutral, even as something cold settled in my chest.
“New routes?” I asked.
“Old ones,” he said. “Just… handled differently.”
Interesting and careful. I flicked some more ash away to give my hands something to do.
I tilted my head slightly, “No one’s stepping on each other’s toes?”
A quiet huff escaped him. “Your father doesn’t strike me as someone who allows that.”
There it was, not subtle this time. I didn’t respond immediately. The cigarette was at my lips with a slow inhale; enough silence stretched to make it seem like I was thinking about the logistics, not the people.
“Didn’t realize they were still that closely aligned,” I said finally.
The commissioner glanced at me sideways; it was the first real reaction I’d gotten from him.
“They’ve always been aligned,” he said. “You know that.”
Did I?
I pushed off the wall, slow and controlled. Extinguishing the cigarette on the sole of my boot.
“Alignment’s one thing,” I muttered. “Joint operations are another.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t know?”
I met his gaze fully now, letting him see enough truth to sell the rest.
“I’m telling you,” I said evenly, “I don’t like not knowing where the money’s coming from.”
That was believable, expected, and safe.
He watched me for another second, then gave a small shake of his head, amused.
“Funny. Most people in your position don’t ask questions like that.” He said.
“Most people in my position, don’t clean up the mess when something goes wrong.” I replied.
That shut him up. Good. Now it all lined up. Midas gone. Revenue up. Routes unchanged. My father is still involved. Which meant —
I pushed away from the wall, straightening.
“Appreciate the concern,” I said, my voice neutral despite the rage in my head. “But everything’s under control.”
The commissioner didn’t move. “See that it stays that way.”
I gave him a short nod and walked past him, not rushed and without hesitation, but the second I turned the corner the pieces locked into place. None of them sat right.