All eyes are on me waiting for me to make my move.

It’s an easy decision—fold on the flop.

One of the men seated at the table mutters something in Russian under his breath, no doubt annoyed with my decision.

Tough shit. I can’t afford to take chances, there’s too much at stake.

Like the million I’m going to have to win and then give to Salvatore Campanelli so he doesn’t hack off my kneecaps and throw me in Lake Mead.

This game isn’t for fun, it’s strictly business. Get in, get the money, and get the fuck out.  

I never thought the day would come where I wouldn’t enjoy playing poker, but like they say—it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

Or in my case—they end up working for the mob…whether they like it or not.

Playing poker because I want to is one thing. Playing because you have a proverbial gun held to your head is another.

As it turns out, there’s way more money to be made in an illegal underground gambling operation than a Vegas casino.

In a casino, after you win a substantial sum, you’re lucky to be allowed in again. They’ll either accuse you of counting cards the next time around or refuse to pay you for breaking some bullshit policy that didn’t exist until moments before.

There’s a reason lightning never strikes twice.

It’s something Salvatore Campanelli, the new head of the Campanelli crime family knows all too well.

Rumor has it he used to be a big-time gambler—but that all ended after he lost his baby brother over a debt he couldn’t pay to some Russians when he was in his early twenties. Long story short, the Campanellis got their revenge and Salvatore never gambled again.

However, the guy has one hell of a grudge against any and all Russian mobsters. And now that he’s the head of his own mob, he makes it his mission to stick it to the Russians whenever he can. Only instead of killing them like a normal mob boss—his favorite weapon is a player who can keep siphoning money from them.

Which is why I’m currently sitting here. The plan is simple. One of Campanelli’s informants gives him the info about the monthly underground poker game and secures me a spot. Campanelli, in turn, gives me the money for the buy-ins and blinds, and I spin it into gold.

Or rather, I did.

Everything changed last month when I lost my first game. You’d think the fucker would have cut me some slack seeing as he gets ninety-fucking-nine percent of all my winnings—but he didn’t take it so well.

I tried pointing out that me losing a game worked in our favor, because the Russians were starting to become suspicious about my three-month winning streak, and that if I hadn’t lost, my next game would be a rigged game of Russian roulette.

But it turns out that Salvatore, much like myself, is a man who gives a fuck about very little.

He accused me of turning on him and working for the Russians. When I opened my mouth to tell him he was fucking crazy, he calmly informed me that he would kill me and every member of my family if I didn’t win the next game.

There’s no reasoning with an Italian psychopath who’s convinced you’re siding with the enemy.

Needless to say—I got the memo loud and clear. Winning this game isn’t an option.

The current hand plays out—and the mutterer whose name I now know is Niko, mutters some more shit in Russian after he loses.

I’m about to ask him to repeat what he said in English when there’s a shift in the air. They all sit up straight like the good little soldiers they are when their commander in chief Vladimir Pavlovich walks in.

A chick named—fuck if I can remember, but she gives decent head, immediately runs over and hands him a glass of vodka.

He appraises the table before his eyes rest on me. “Ah, the pretty boy.”

The men snicker like it’s the funniest shit they’ve ever heard.

Inside I’m chomping at the bit to tell them all to go fuck themselves, but I know better than to let them see me sweat or give Vladimir any reason to throw me out.

I pick up my beer and give them all a shit-eating grin. “Come on, fellas. Don’t let me be good looking and rich. Not fair for one man to have it all.” I point to my chips. “Are we playing poker or what?”

My statement amuses Vladimir who laughs a hearty chuckle, finishes his vodka, and leaves.

Back to business as usual.

Or not, because Niko, the mutterer, gives me a hard look. “He’s not even Russian. How come he’s allowed to play with us?”

A couple of the guys stop looking at their cards and look at me, no doubt pondering the same thing.

Fuck, I don’t need this tonight. “Money is money, right? Besides, who says I’m not Russian?”

I’m not, but this guy is pissing me off and I need to shut this shit down before it escalates.

He swirls the liquid around in his glass. “That American accent says otherwise.” He spits the word American out like it’s rancid.

I hitch a shoulder up. “Well, your babushka had no complaints about my American dick last night.”

He leaps up from the table, sputtering a slew of what I’m sure are sweet Russian pleasantries, but a few of the guys pull him back and tell him to settle down.

I raise my hands. “Look, man. I’m here to play, not draw you a diagram of my family tree. Russian or not, Vladimir has no problem with me being here, so you shouldn’t either.”

That makes the other men relax, but not this guy. It only makes him angrier. He spews something else in Russian before he sucks his teeth at me and picks up his cards. “Let’s play.”

A little over three hours later, two out of the seven players have left after losing everything they came here with, and the pot is finally up to one million.

It’s now or never. A couple of the men are talking about going home after this, so if I don’t act now, I’ll miss my only opportunity.  

Unfortunately, my cards aren’t cooperative. I have a pair of twos and a three after the flop.

Normally, I would fold in this situation. If I don’t have face cards right off the bat, I reject the hand quicker than a hooker with a venereal disease.

But not this time.

This time—I raise. I’m going all the way.

Since I’ve been notorious for folding on the flop and rarely making it past a turn, it sparks some interest around the table.

“His balls have finally dropped,” Niko declares, but I don’t miss the look of uneasiness on his and everyone else’s face.

Which is exactly what I want.

The key to making people fold is by tricking them into thinking they know how you play. If they think I’m a careful player like folding on the flop or turn suggests—then it’s safe to assume when I do bet, I’ve got a damn good hand.

My stomach pinches after the turn gives me a five, but I remain stoic like the rest of them. Aside from the language barrier, another disadvantage of playing poker with Russians is that they all have their poker faces down pat.

I have no choice but to bluff big or go home, so I go in for the kill.

I raise again, pushing a little over half my chips in front of me.

Apprehension is practically coming off them in waves.

Except for Niko who rises to the challenge and re-raises.

It’s an aggressive move and it causes three men to fold immediately. The last man looks at Niko who rubs his nose, and then me, and then at his cards again before he pushes his stack of chips forward. Fortunately, that nanosecond of trepidation tells me he doesn’t have a great hand himself; he just wants to impress Niko who was undoubtedly giving him a signal.

Not the ideal situation for me to be in. Another man might start goading the two men to fold, but not me. Actions speak louder than words, and I want them to listen to that little voice inside their head telling them to fold.

The river gives me another three. Not bad, but sure as fuck not good either.

Not enough to win. Not unless Niko and his buttbuddy are both bluffing. I’ll find out by the end of the showdown.

Niko cracks his knuckles before he pushes his entire stack forward. “All in.”

I don’t look at my cards as I do the same. “Me too.”

For a fraction of a second, Niko’s composure wavers before his face goes back to an impassive mask.

His friend, on the other hand, runs a hand over his head, teetering on the edge. Niko rubs his nose again, no doubt telling him to calm the fuck down before he ruins their little side deal. But that only makes sweat trickle down his forehead. “He’s not the type to bluff, Niko.”

He’s wrong. I’m the type to bluff, lie, cheat, and steal to keep my head off the chopping block, but I’m flattered he thinks so highly of me.

He stands up, paces back and forth for a bit, and pours himself another glass of vodka.

I’ve never seen a Russian experience tilt before, but I can’t say I blame him, there is a million dollars on the line.

Niko’s eyes become tiny slits. It’s clear his friend has blown his end of the silent agreement and he’s not going to call like he was supposed to. Smart move.

As predicted, he shakes his head and flips his cards over. I inwardly wince when I see a straight. Much better than my measly two pair. Dude should have called.

Niko looks at me. “I’d reconsider if I were you.”

His vodka must be spiked with absinthe if he thinks I’m going to fall for that.

“I’m good.” I smile and gesture to his cards. “After you.”

My heart pounds and my blood runs cold when the first cards he flips over are two aces. Bile rises up my esophagus as memories of the only other time I’ve been so nervous during a showdown clobber me.

No, fuck that. I won’t go to that place. Not here, not now. Not in front of them. I beat that son-of-a-bitch when I was twelve and I’ll beat this one too. I don’t have much, but there must be something of mine this guy wants. Something I can barter for another round. I can’t lose. I refuse to.

I’m so busy thinking of ways to negotiate, I almost don’t realize until it’s too late that his other cards are a five, four, and a two.

Those pair of aces are the only good thing in his hand.

My smile grows as I flip my hand over—revealing two pair.

I want to ask him if he wants some cream for that burn, but I’m already filling up a duffle bag. I just want to leave, give Salvatore his money, and go back home to my crappy motel room.

“How does he keep winning?” Niko exclaims as I situate the money in the bag.

I look him right in the eyes. “Because you guys are gambling.” I tug the zipper. “And I’m playing poker.”

With that, I pull the strap over my shoulder and walk out.