Table Stakes

Chapter One: The Screen

Alex Vega arrived early, the way he always did when money and silence shared the same room. The penthouse sat like a crystal shoebox above the Strip, all glass and lines and smooth surfaces that had never seen daylight. On the far side, neon and LED bled up from the casinos below, a river of color chasing its tail down Las Vegas Boulevard.

He did his circuit. He checked the double locks on the private elevator. He ran his hands along the seams of the wall panels and the edges of the air vents. He watched the silent security detail plant themselves outside the door, four men who looked like geometry—right angles and hard lines.

He screened the suite. He checked the poker table, a custom oval with a sunken automatic shuffler and edges wrapped in black leather. He popped the dealer tray. Clean. He unscrewed one leg cap and peered inside with a penlight. Clean. He ran a sweep for wireless under the felt and around the ceiling fixtures. Clean enough.

Franklin Doyle came in ten minutes later with a grin that showed all his teeth and none of his debt. The casino heir wore a midnight suit and a watch big enough to shame the moon. He wanted this night to land right. The whispers had gone out discreetly. A secret table. A million to sit. No cameras, no phones. Real players only.

“Alex,” Franklin said, clasping hands. “My man.”

“I’m your consultant,” Alex said. “Not your man.”

Franklin laughed like Alex had told a joke. “As long as this thing runs clean.”

“It runs clean,” Alex said. “Or it doesn’t run.”

The others arrived in ones and twos. Owen Price, tech money in a tailored jacket, the kind of trim beard that looked engineered. He had a smartwatch that swallowed his wrist like a cuff. He didn’t look at anyone when he came in. He looked at the devices and the angles.

Harper Quinn came without an entourage, a clean face and clear eyes, moving like a person with zero noise in her head. Card rooms had told stories about Harper for years, none of them dirty. She sat where she could see doors and hands. She wore no watch.

Tommy Navarro strolled in like a man walking into sunlight he remembered from a long time ago. He’d been brilliant once, before he got brilliant at losing. The lines on his face looked permanent now, the kind you got when you leaned hard into the wrong turns and kept going.

Jade Park wheeled in the locked case. The dealer. She didn’t miss details, didn’t miss beats. She wore black and a neutral expression that never shifted. When she nodded, it was once and done. Precision had a face. Tonight it was hers.

They signed nondisclosure agreements on the end of the table, Franklin’s attorney watching like a hawk perched over a field he owned. They dropped phones into a locked drawer. They bought in and slid stacks forward. The weight hit the felt as a single muscle flex, a sound like a book closing.

Franklin spread his arms. “Only rule,” he said. “No cheating.”

The automatic shuffler hummed. The room went quiet. Jade dealt the first hand, her wrists a metronome. Chips clicked, voices stayed low. The Strip buzzed under the glass, bright and far away.

Alex stood back, the way he used to stand outside crime scenes he hadn’t yet labeled. He watched everything—the flick of eyes at the turn, the way thumbs covered corners of cards, breaths taken on the beat when decisions came. He watched the ice bucket they’d set beside the bar, the cocktail cart near the balcony, the edge of the dealer’s shoe peeking from under the table. He was paid to keep games clean. He’d learned the same habits keeping streets that way.

Cards in the air. The night began.