Chasing the White Lion by James Hannibal (best free e book reader .TXT) 📗

to either end, using a crook-like chip harrow. He set a third, double-layer tray at his right elbow, on Jafet’s side.

“Jafet’s reserves, I presume?” Marco thrust his square chin at the extra chips. “A show of force. The game is stacked against me already.”

The croupier only smiled. He let a machine shuffle his cards and then twiddled his thumbs, waiting.

At 11:38 p.m., fashionably late, Jafet arrived. Marco stood to greet him, and the two met at the midpoint of the table like generals meeting for a parley on the field of battle. Jafet tucked a silver-headed cane under his arm to shake the Italian’s hand. “Marco Calafato, how long has it been?”

“Too long, Orien. Too long.”

“Indeed.” As he returned to his seat, Marco checked a silver pocket watch. “I was concerned for your welfare, old friend. I thought we were to begin at half past.”

Jafet made no excuse. His eyes flashed to Talia, standing behind the Italian. “I see you managed to bring a good luck charm, despite my best efforts to keep you all to myself.”

“This is Natalia, whom I view as a goddaughter. We met by chance on the balcony.”

“Chance, eh?” Jafet did not buy it. The look he cast at the lead guard told Talia the man’s job might be forfeit. But then he chuckled. “I’ll allow it. What is victory if no one from the losing side lives to tell the tale?”

At the not-so-subtle hint Marco would not survive the night, Talia laid a protective hand on his shoulder.

The old Italian gave her fingers a reassuring pat, never taking his eyes off his opponent. “Thank you, old friend. Besides, I need her to shield my cards from the roving eyes of your men.”

“You wound me, Marco. I would not cheat tonight—not with what lies at stake.”

“Honor itself?”

“Just so. And with the stakes affirmed, it is time to begin.”

They played five-card draw, the simplest and fastest of poker forms. Marco won the first three hands. Jafet took the fourth, with a larger pot than the first three put together. All the while, the two reminisced. Their rivalry had spanned nations and continents—around the Med and beyond. Sicily. Corsica. Barcelona. Bern.

Jafet’s eyes burned with increasing heat, particularly when discussing those cities where his organization had lost ground. But the general flow of the pot to his side of the table seemed to keep his anger in check.

Soon that flow became a flood.

Marco lost one hand after the other. In some, he folded after the first bet, taking minimal hits. But in others, he pushed too far and fell short of Jafet on the call. As his pile of chips dwindled to a breaking point, Talia glanced at the island below to check on Val.

The grifter had pulled Aku to the east bridge, away from the tables. They were arguing—not a heated exchange, but an exaggerated discussion, like teenagers on a third date. Talia watched their lips. In her head, she could hear Val driving the script.

Take one picture of me from the top. Just one.

Why? You’ll hardly be visible in the crowd.

A girl wants what a girl wants. Please, Aku. One picture. Get the whole club in the shot.

Aku looked up at the eighth-level balcony. Annoyed but malleable. More than a little tipsy. After a little more encouragement from Val, he set off across the bridge.

A rhythmic splash of chips drew Talia’s focus back to the game. Jafet was looking straight at her. “Your good luck charm is distracted, old friend. She is failing at her purpose.”

Marco remained cold, his expression unmoving. “Luck is a figment of the imagination. Poker is a skill, a learned balance of risk and reward.” Marco’s eyes, beneath that heavy brow, looked down at the pot. “It seems you are taking the ultimate risk. You’ve put me all in.”

The dealer scooped all Marco’s chips into a neat pile near the pot, and Jafet sat back, laughing without restraint. “You were all in the moment you left Campione. You made a play. I saw it coming. I call.” He laid his cards on the table. “Three aces. Two kings. Full house.”

Marco held his cards to his chest. “I am afraid I’m not following. What play do you speak of?”

In answer, Jafet reached into his jacket. Talia tensed, but all he drew out was a miniature tablet. He laid it on the table, started a video application, and nodded for the croupier to slide the device over to Marco with his crook.

On the screen Aku walked along the eighth-level balcony. Talia checked the same spot and saw the Kongaran. The video was live.

Jafet snapped his fingers, and his short lead guard mumbled into his radio. Two guards converged on Aku. They caught him a few paces short of the steps to the platform.

The Kongaran struggled and protested. “A picture. I only wanted a picture.”

“I don’t believe him,” Jafet said, addressing Marco. “After all, he is your man.”

“My man?”

“Networks, Marco. The old analog methods you used to best me in Bern and Sicily became obsolete while you languished in retirement. The future is digital. It constrains us, creates choke points, and my network in Club Styx has the best decryption software money can buy.” He pointed at Aku with his cane. “Earlier this evening, my sensors tracked a five-million-dollar payment from the account you used to cover your chips to an account belonging to that man—your assassin. Since then, my security force has watched his every move.”

Aku’s jacket started beeping. One of the guards held his arms while another dug a black orb with a flashing red LED out of his breast pocket. The beeping quickened. The guard’s eyes widened, and he threw it out under the dome. The ball exploded with red sparks and a puff of gray smoke, eliciting a shocked Ooo! from the crowd.

“Not mine,” Aku said, struggling against his captors. “It was not mine!”

The guards dragged him away.

Jafet leveled a silenced pistol at Marco’s head. “Midnight is upon us, old friend, and