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This shows me when the odds swing more favorably. However, each shuffle resets the dance, and the count begins again.
In Texas Hold’em, counting cards is less about memorization and more about understanding game dynamics. Unlike blackjack, where you track exact cards, here you observe the flow—high, medium, and low cards and suits that surface. Noting how many of a certain suit appear after the flop helps gauge the likelihood of a flush around the table. I usually avoid that game if I can help it, but if not, I always have other ways. Like at Verdigris the other night, I used a riskier tactic—hand mucking. Holding a high card in reserve, like an Ace or King, I’d wait for a moment of distraction, then swap it in. High stakes, high risk. In those underground games, I’ve seen severe consequences for getting caught, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
My fingers sweep the cards, ready for the next round. To any onlooker, I am just another dealer among the sea of green felt tables. But beneath the surface, my mind races, tallying suits and values faster than a roulette wheel spins.
“Hit me,” comes the gruff command from Peter.
“Are you sure, sir?” I ask, knowing the odds are not in his favor after turning cards for the other 5 people at the table. But it isn’t my place to argue, only to serve cards, and I hope I make enough tips to play the underground games tomorrow. I’m still short, even after my win at Verdigris last night. If I don’t, I risk borrowing or selling my soul for the chance.
I used to only play the smaller games, mainly wannabe gangsters or small league dealers. It’s how I supplement my income, but lately, my eyes have been on the bigger games. Those are the games people bet their lives on, their families’ lives. Mine, I’m willing to gamble, but my family’s definitely not.
Over the past five years, I’ve learned every game here, from 3 to 5 in hand poker, blackjack, and roulette. I know the cards, which sides of the dice are weighted, and the chances, just as I remember Emma’s medications. Unfortunately, these players are locals and gambling addicts who barely have a few cents to rub together tonight. Meaning my tips will suck unless they win.
“Damn straight,” Peter shoots back, though I don’t miss the desperation in his gaze. Another thing I’ve learned is that I’m good at reading people, the subtle twitch of someone’s lips, and the flick of their eyes as they scan a table or the cards. I can tell when their hand excites or disappoints by how they sit or breathe. Everything is a sign of a winning or losing hand, and by the look on Peter’s face, this hand decides if he goes home or plays another round. And I know he’s going home.
I flip the card and watch his face crumble. The card I flip adds to his ruin, and his face falls.
“Fuck!” he mutters, throwing his hands up before storming away, his drink sloshing recklessly onto the plush carpet. Peter should have walked away. I shouldn’t have warned him by asking him if he was sure, but I know Peter has a family at home, a family that’s on the brink of losing everything because of his gambling addiction. With a heavy sigh, I watch Peter storm off to the exit and leave before my eyes flick to the floor above. I suck in a relieved breath when I notice my boss no longer watching me.
However, that feeling of relief lasts about two seconds. I am about to deal the next hand to a new patron who slides onto the stool across from me when I feel a presence behind me. The heat of them seeps into my back, and I’m suddenly alert to my surroundings as I stare in horror at the man who just took Peter’s seat.
TWO
LEONE
My eyes scan the floor below, looking for the woman responsible for ripping me off. She’s unaware that her fate is now in my hands, an undesirable position to be sure. The casino floor below us buzzes with the electric thrum of excitement and desperation, the sounds of hopes and dreams being kindled or crushed beneath the relentless turn of cards and roll of the dice. I watch the scene unfold with detached amusement from my vantage point on the mezzanine. Their misfortune lines my pockets. The neon lights cast an eerie glow on the players below. Every face tells a unique story, be it tragic or comedic.
They are nothing, mere ants, wasting their lives gambling for a chance to change their lives, yet they won’t find it here. The odds never favor them; I’d be out of business if they were.
The odds, cruelly skewed, ensure my empire’s survival, a truth they willingly blind themselves to in their pursuit of fortune.
Rule One: abandon all hope at the door.
This is not a place of triumphs; it’s a graveyard of dreams, where my house preys upon the naive and the desperate. Loaded dice; the cards marked, and the slots are a siren song leading to a financial shipwreck. The thrill of the risk and the adrenaline of the near-win are the hooks that sink deep into their souls, dragging them back time and time again.
Rule Two: Recognize the illusion of the big win.
It’s a mirage in the desert of despair, an oasis that vanishes upon approach. The illusion of the big win is the dealer’s best trick. It’s a phantom, a cruel joke played upon those foolish enough to believe in fairy tales. The cycle is merciless; loss breeds desperation, leading them back into my clutches.
In this world, addiction wears the pretty smiles of the girls dealing and is housed on smooth felt tables. It whispers sweet nothings of luck and fate into the ears of the damned, seducing them into believing that just one more roll. One more hand and one more spin will be their salvation. But in this game, the only salvation lies in walking away, a feat few have the strength to achieve.
Rule Three: The house always wins; its foundations are built on broken dreams and empty wallets.
In this game, money, lives, relationships, and futures are gambled away. Gambling here is more than a game—it’s a chasm few can escape. Here, lives are not just wagered; they’re devoured, piece by piece, until nothing remains but the hollow shell of a once-hopeful soul.
This is my kingdom of despair, where hope is slaughtered under Lady Luck’s cold, unfeeling gaze. The casino is more than a den of vice—it’s a world where hope and despair are currency; in gambling, the only winner is the one who holds the deck.
Milo sidles up to me, leaning casually against the railing. His usually impassive face betrays a hint of tension as he looks out over the casino floor.
“How was your meeting with your father?” Milo asks, and I glare at the floor below.
“As always, he wants me to marry. The establishment’s shareholders want a family man in charge.”
“I thought you were buying it?” Milo asks.
“They don’t want to let go of the Red Lantern. Verdigris owed debt, so they had no choice. Red Lantern, the Mexicans want to make it into a family-safe establishment; they’ve agreed to go 50/50 but are concerned about the optics of my bachelor persona”
Milo sighs. We planned to buy the entire strip, but my father believed I needed to remain on the good side of the Mexican Cartel. The last thing we need here is a war.
