3

Joshua

“I’m raising the stakes, Shawn. This is a one-shot deal.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning if you win this hand, not only do you walk away with my cash, but I’ll wipe out your debt to those Bratva bastards.”

His eyes flickered with intrigue, a glimmer of hope brightening his expression before confusion set in. “And if I lose?”

I leaned back, relishing my dominance. “Then you’ll accept the punishment you’ve earned—like a man.”

At first, he snorted, but then he realized the weight of my words. “Punishment?”

“It’s a fair deal, Shawn. Anyone else would be eliminated for such a serious infraction.”

Panic washed over him as beads of sweat trickled down his temples. “I can give you the name of the guy running the syndicate in the U.S. You can have their business.”

“Oh, I intend to, Shawn. And you’ll provide the name and all the details I need. What I’m offering you is a chance to keep your life intact. This is a one-time opportunity. Take it or leave it.”

He was trapped, cornered by his own desperation. After a brief moment of hesitation, he nodded, acceptance dawning on him.

As the final cards were dealt, a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. “Full house!” His men cheered, eager to celebrate with shots.

Normally, I’d bask in the glory of a win, but today was different. Maybe I needed a break—a tropical escape. Mikey even suggested I could use some “stress relief,” a comment only he could make without consequence.

I glanced at my cards, sliding them down carefully, then allowed Shawn a second glance before revealing my hand. “Straight flush.”

In an instant, all color drained from his face. He shot up from the table, two of his goons instinctively reaching for their weapons.

“You fucking cheated!” he yelled, rage taking over.

“Time for your punishment.” I rose slowly, pushing back my chair before pocketing the cash on the table.

“This is bullshit! You can’t just waltz in here and act like you own the place.”

“Erica owns this bar, Shawn. You know that. And you know the saying: you play, you pay.” Just then, the door swung open, and another Clinton soldier stepped inside—clearly sent by Shawn’s father to maintain order.

“Mr. James. Is there any way I can assist?” the soldier inquired.

“What the hell is this?” Shawn shouted.

I exchanged a glance with Mikey, signaling him to reveal the knife he’d brought along. This lesson needed to stick—no mere band-aid fixes for betrayal. It had to leave a lasting impression.

The Clinton soldier seized Shawn’s wrist, slamming his hand onto the table.

Amid his confusion and rising paranoia, Shawn hurled threats my way. I was used to that; a week wasn’t complete without at least one threat against me.

“You won’t get away with this!” he shouted, struggling against the grip of his own man.

“Shut up, Shawn. Your father agreed.”

The weight of that revelation hit him like a freight train, draining the color from his face once more. I moved toward the door but paused just before stepping out. “You will have one of your men email me the information I requested. And because I’m a fair man, I’ll have a word with the Pakhan about reducing your debt.”

Mikey raised his head, awaiting my signal. When I held up two fingers, he understood what came next. I wasn’t going to leave Shawn completely crippled; that was the arrangement we had with his father.

But there would be no mercy beyond that.

As I stepped into the night, a chilling thought crossed my mind: What if Shawn wasn’t the only one with secrets worth exposing? A trip to the States was inevitable, and I could already sense the thrill of the hunt. I’d indulge in a little R&R along the way—after all, the game was just beginning.