Chapter 31

The dealer was new. You could smell the inexperience beneath the gallons of cheap cologne. He was young—maybe early twenties. Blond. Twitchy. Sweated like he’d just been caught texting the boss’s wife.

He gave us a stiff nod. “Ladies.”

I smiled, trailing my fingers across the table like a caress. “Gentlemen,” I purred to no one in particular.

Around us, the sharks circled. Two older men in tailored suits. One with a pinky ring so large it could knock someone out. The other with the dead eyes of someone who used to run black market deals in Prague.

I sat, slowly, crossing my legs so the slit in my dress did all the talking. “Let’s play.” I placed a moderate bet. Just enough to look confident. Not too much to draw suspicion.

He dealt.

Queen of Hearts.

I looked at him. Straight in the eyes. Winked.

Poor guy.

He twitched. Then he gave me a five.

I bit my bottom lip and sipped my wine. “Oh my,” I said sweetly. “How lucky.”

Dealer coughed. Pinky Ring cleared his throat. Someone behind us muttered a soft curse.

Mylene was next. She leaned forward just enough for the lights to catch the glitter in her cleavage. “Hit me,” she said, voice sultry as silk.

She had a twelve.

He hesitated.

She giggled, and then blew a kiss to the man seated beside us. “Don’t worry, I’m lucky tonight.”

He gave her a nine.

She flashed a dazzling smile. “Told you.”

Now Jhing—Jhing didn’t flirt. She challenged. She glared at the cards like they owed her money.

Two eights. She slammed her chips down. “Split.”

Both hands?

Face cards.

Dealer bust.

We didn’t squeal. We didn’t cheer. We smiled like women who had been here before. Like winning was expected.

We stood up, hips swaying like a pendulum of doom, and left the table £15,000 richer after just three hands. The crowd parted for us like we were royalty walking through peasants.

At the bar, Mick was watching. I felt his gaze before I saw him. His eyes narrowed. He knew us. Or thought he did. He once guarded the private vault. Now he was Alec’s eyes on the floor.

He tilted his head and smirked. Probably thought we were just three flashy women who got lucky. Lottery winners. Rich bored housewives. A walking cliché.

Good. Let him think that. Let him underestimate us.

Mylene raised her glass toward him with a wink. Jhing adjusted her earring with a sigh like she was already tired of winning. I flicked my hair over my shoulder and made sure the gold bracelet caught the light.

I built this floor. I programmed the system. I coded the dealer’s tells and rigged the RFID chips in the roulette tables years ago. This was my house. And tonight?

Tonight I came back to collect.

Next stop: Roulette. Now this was where the magic happened. The roulette system had a slight delay between spin registration and number declaration on the floor display. Most wouldn't notice. But I had a signal sent through my discreetly modified smartwatch, connected to a lag exploit I programmed years ago.

It wasn’t cheating, per se. It was… remembering the flaws I left behind.

Forgotten cracks in the system, whispers in code, and lazy updates by people too afraid or too dumb to erase my signature. I placed a fat stack of chips on “Red 19.”

Jhing Jhing laughed like she picked the number on a whim, twirling a loose curl of her hair as if she was deciding between tea flavors. “Ohh, Red 19 just feels... spicy.”

The croupier gave her a polite, confused smile. He was young—maybe early twenties—with slicked-back hair and a jawline that looked chiseled by debt. His white gloves trembled for a split second as he picked up the ivory ball. I caught it.

He knew. Not what, but something.

Maybe it was our confidence.

Maybe the way I watched the wheel—not like a gambler, but like an engineer.

He spun the wheel. The lights above reflected in the polished mahogany. The ball clattered, skipped, danced its chaotic ballet.

And then it landed.

Red 19.

“Winner,” the croupier said, trying to keep his voice level, but I caught the shift—his eyes widened a fraction too long before the training kicked in.

He cleared his throat. “Payout, 35 to 1.”

Chips slid across the felt toward us like obedient soldiers. The sound was a lullaby of vengeance.

Across the room, I felt it. The mood.

The men. Their gazes lingered—not the usual lecherous weight women endure in heels and lipstick.

No, this was something more... primal.

Confusion. Jealousy. Hunger. We weren’t three bimbos blowing lottery cash anymore.

We were sharks in sequins. I saw one older man—Rolex, wine gut, too much cologne—lean over to his friend and whisper, “They’re on fire.” The friend shook his head slowly, like he was watching a miracle unfold. Or a train wreck he couldn’t look away from.

Mylene smiled sweetly and bent over the table, enough to make even the statues blush. “Let’s do another,” she purred, pretending to bite her nail. “How about... Black 17?”