The Fortune Games

Chapter 1

Becoming a millionaire has ruined my life.

Well, not the becoming part, to be fair. That was all glitter and gold and dreams come true. My downfall began the second I knew I had to get rid of the money.

I close my eyes for a heartbeat, then snap them open just as fast. The idea of what could have been gnaws at me, each thought dragging me deeper into the slow, sticky envelope of this cell. It’s worse than trying to wipe away a piece of Starburst melting in the sun.

A mess that just keeps spreading, no matter what I do to try and clean it up.

God, I’m starving. The tick of the clock is starting to drive me up the wall, and just as I’m about to beg for a call to my mum, the door creaks open.

About time. I’ve been cooped up in here far too long.

The badge on this man’s chest reads Officer Alonso.

That relaxes me a little. It’s nice to see another Spanish surname around here.

I look him in the eye, but the question in my mind never leaves my lips.

Am I going to jail? That’s what I’m wondering.

I don’t look good in orange, but I doubt Mr Alonso will lose any sleep over what colour best suits my olive undertones.

“It’s your lucky day, girl,” he tells me, “André Saidi’s here.”

Officer Alonso leads me to a small room.

He opens the door, and I step inside. The lights here are cold, like those of a hospital waiting room: four white walls, a floor lamp, a rectangular table, and two black plastic chairs.

A languid plant lies abandoned in one corner.

That’s all for decor. He tells me to sit and leaves me in the sterile quiet.

Great, another interrogation, I think to myself.

The squeak of rubber-soled shoes on the plywood brings me out of my thoughts. André Saidi enters the room and knocks on the door behind him. I don’t flinch or jump; instead, I stay still.

André is the owner of Saidi that look he’s giving me right now makes me feel as insignificant as a flea beneath his shoe.

I feel like a five-year-old girl who’s just been caught misbehaving and has earned a scolding from the teacher.

But I’m a 20-year-old girl who’s had a bit of a wild weekend. And I don’t feel like going through this shit.

“I guess sorry doesn’t cut it,” I mumble.

He snorts again.

“Oh, really? And how did you reach that conclusion, Vera?” His fingers grip around the edge of the table, but his expression remains neutral, sceptical, almost. “Doesn’t cut it for me, and won’t for the police, either.”

I huff in return. Not like I want the help of any of those idiots. But I guess I have no choice.

“That’s why you’re here. What should I tell them?”

“You said on the phone you have an explanation for all this.”

A heartbeat. My pulse quickens.

“I do.”

“Will it get you out of here?”

I don’t really know. Pull me out of this mess or sink me further into it, those are the only options. The odds seem equally balanced.

“Maybe.”

His upper lip quivers, a subtle gesture that betrays what’s really going through his mind. André has never trusted me. That much, I know. His wary eyes have always watched me from a distance, always waiting for the moment I would mess up.

I wasn’t like them. I didn’t belong at Cutnam, the prestigious institution tucked away near Hampstead, the finest law school in the world.

A place that, if not for my scholarship, I could never afford.

I stressed my words in the wrong syllable sometimes, and my accent wasn’t classy, refined, whatever that meant.

I didn’t have the right connections, the right ancestors.

Yet, he couldn’t dismiss me. I had earned my place at the school. And I had earned my place at Saidi through the Chance Program—an honour for law students who haven’t yet graduated. Only three students worldwide won the scholarship. One in Europe, one in Asia, and one in America.

Saidi had been my price, just as much the start of their decline.

“Well, then, give me the explanation. Shoot.”

I begin recounting my story, though I skip over many details. He knows he’s getting a half-truth, but when I finish, he seems satisfied. I’m certain that anything I haven’t told him, Bastian has already blurted out with that loose tongue of his.

No, I won’t be thinking about Bastian’s tongue right now. Not the right moment to do that.

I’m aware many will be called to testify, and between all our statements, both the police and André will piece the full story together. I’d prefer my version to be the first they hear.

When my boss nods—a gesture I interpret as “Vera, for once I’m proud your name is at the bottom of the company’s list,” though it’s probably more of a “Vera, you’ve messed up, don’t make it worse”—I know I have to repeat the story just as I did before to the police.

If things go awry, I’m laying the blame squarely at his feet. He’s the boss, after all.

Officer Alonso ushers me into another room that is a mirror image of the last, as though they’ve cloned the space and flipped it.

I take a seat. This time, alongside Officer Alonso, there’s a woman.

Her hair is streaked with grey and yellowed at the ends, her expression long and weary, and her face hangs downward like a tired old horse.

She smiles at me, her grin stretching wide and toothy.

André stands by the door, gazing out until another officer waves him in and shuts the door behind him.

“Before we begin, Miss Rodríguez, would you like some water? A coffee? Anything else?” Alonso offers.

In the back right corner of the room, there’s a vending machine with plastic cups, the only thing that sets this room apart from the previous one.

The machine offers just two options: Water on the left and Coffee on the right.

There’s no choice for milk, which is a shame. I would have appreciated a warm glass.

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Excuse me, John,” André says. Is he friends with this guard? I don’t know why I’m surprised. André is friends with everyone. “I’ll get her a coffee before we begin. It’ll do you good, Vera.”

My boss fumbles with the plastic cups, trying to separate them.

Then he presses the right button. No one says anything as a dark stream pours into the cup, and I shift in my seat.

Officer Alonso and the long-faced woman become overly engrossed in the papers before them.

I glance at André. It feels like waiting for someone to finish peeing, listening to that awkward trickle against the toilet bowl.

The last drops fall, and I almost expect my boss to zip up his fly. Ugh.

The coffee finishes brewing. André sets it in front of me before sitting down beside me. I peer into the paper cup, watching the dark liquid swirl and settle at the bottom. Dark and bitter. Just like my future.

“We can begin whenever you’re ready.”

The woman’s smile is unsettling, her teeth too large for her face, which tapers into an awkward point rather than rounding out.

“Very well. Thank you, Mr Saidi. I’m Alba Morrison, head of the department.”

She angles her sharp chin towards me and says, “We’re going to record your statement. André informs us that you’ve already consented to this. Is that correct?”

I nod.

“Then let’s begin.”

The interrogation proceeds like something out of a movie.

I’ve been studying law for a year and a half, and this is my favourite part of every case, uncovering what really happened.

Or, more accurately, what your client says happened.

In this case, Alonso and Horseface are about to receive a detailed version of events that André has deemed appropriate.

AM: Are you Vera Rodríguez Malin?

She cites my full name, somehow butchering the pronunciation of all the vowels at once.

VR: Yes.

AM: Do you know what you’re being accused of?

VR: Yes.

Officer John Alonso reads me my rights and then reads aloud from his papers.

JA: Money laundering. Is that correct?

VR: That’s right.

AM: Do you plead guilty?

André and I exchange glances. This is the moment to be convincing, the moment when my account must align with Enzo Woods’, Bastian Saidi’s, Julian Garros’, and a dozen other witnesses.

VR: I’m not going to answer.

I cradle the coffee cup in my hands. It’s searingly hot, the burn of the liquid seeping through the double layer of plastic and scorching my fingers.

André ended up using two cups, unable to separate them, which I now thank.

I’m freezing. I take a sip, but the coffee is too watery, and I push it aside in disdain.

What I wouldn’t give for some syrup! The woman broadens her smile.

AM: Then help us understand what happened so the judge can make a decision, yes?

VR: It all started on Friday, October 30th—I cut her off before she asks—But I think I should give you some context first.

Officer Alonso’s pen scratches across his notepad, adding notes beneath the charge of money laundering. They call it that; I like to think of it more as an every-man-for-himself, manoeuvre-your-way-out-of-this-mess situation.

But I’m not going to tell them that.

AM: Go ahead, Vera.

André clears his throat. A warning to watch my words. No amount of caution on my part will save me from what others say. I must be the one to get myself out of this. So, after thinking twice, I take another sip of the thin coffee and begin recounting my last weekend.