Winning Hands

Chapter 1

Maverick

         Eyes pierce into me from all directions, but I sit still and remain quiet. Wetting my lips, I gaze down at the cards in my right hand. If these Brazilians could kill me with their stares, I’d be a dead man already.

         Those were the risks of accepting a poker game in Luciano Matthias’ multi-million dollar villa. I’m surrounded by fiends.

         Raising my eyes, I stare at the billionaire in question, with his dark hair slicked back and his brown eyes focused on his lackluster amount of poker chips. Beside him, his associates, Gustav Cardoso and Fabricio Barbosa, sip languidly from their tumblers.

         I smooth a finger along the collar of my shirt—a simple white polo. Around me, Luciano and his friends wear dark suits and minimal accessories. No one wants to one-up Luciano, not with the kind of power he possesses.

         But here, at the poker table, the king on the throne is me. And they’re pissed about that.

         Each round, my stack of chips towers higher and higher. Impatiently, my finger flicks at the corner edge of one of my cards. Eventually, Luciano reveals his four of a kind. His associates murmur and smile amongst themselves.

         All the smiles die when I display my straight flush. Behind me, aggressive Portuguese splutters out in whispers. Luciano’s jaw clenches. Fabricio leans in closer to me, anger teeming off of his gray eyes.

         “Explain your last move, Hardson.”

         I shrug simply, gathering my chips with an easy move. Gustav tosses his cards on the baize.

         “What’s there to explain? Every card has been played in plain sight. There’s no trickery from me,” I reply. I sip the tequila from my glass and lean in close to Gustav. “I’ve always played by the rules. That should be enough. Right?”

         Out of the corner of my eye, Luciano nods at one of his security guards. I’m no fool. I know that look. I know this damn set-up. Luciano is a man whose ego has been torn to shreds.

         And a man in my position only has one option left if I want to leave still alive.

         “Bathroom break,” I announce, slamming my hand on the baize before rising out of my seat.

         My stride is quick and quiet as I make my way to the nearest bathroom, more opulent than some homes back in the states. Marble echoes underneath my feet and the walls are painted with gold and white designs.

         I shut the door behind me and lodge a nearby armchair against the knob to slow down any goons. Clicking my tongue, my eyes scan the bathroom before landing on a semi-opened window.

         There it is. My escape.

         Wiping my clammy hands on my pants, I grip the windowsill and hoist myself the fuck out of there. In no way, shape, or form am I going to allow Luciano Matthias and his men to eat me alive over a damn poker game.

         The more time I waste, the more bullets they load into their rifles.

         I jump down from the window and land into the manicured bushes down below, cushioning my fall slightly. There’s a large, ugly dent in their once-perfect edges, a final “fuck you” to the billionaire who is now after my head.

         Adrenaline courses through my veins as I sprint down to the motor court, where a line of high luxury cars are situated in an organized fashion. Distant shouts resonate throughout the villa, reminding me that my life is on the line if I stay another moment. Luckily for me, one of the valets left the driver’s side door open to one of the cars. With the keys still in the ignition.

         “Someone’s losing their job today,” I quip to myself, laughing easily as I slip into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

         A horrified valet worker tries to catch up to me and pound on the windows, but I’ve already locked the doors and shot him the finger as I peel out of there, tires screeching.

         I nearly run a security guard over as I blaze out of the villa. In my rearview mirror, I notice a flurry of security guards scrambling in that same motor court, pointing at the dark blue convertible that I just stole from one of Matthias’ guests.

         To no one’s surprise, some of the guards start following me in convertibles of their own. I crack my neck and tighten my grip on the steering wheel, annoyed by their incredible level of ass-kissing for their precious boss.

         Looks like I’ll have to pull some of my old moves today.

         With a smile, I start drifting through Rio’s narrow streets, aided by the oncoming cover of darkness that the night brings. I slam on the horn everytime someone gets into my way, tempted to just ram my car into their rear end altogether.

         “I’m not that much of a villain, though,” I whisper, beckoning an old woman with a grocery cart to pass across the street before hitting the sharp right turn.

         Every now and then, I glance into the mirrors and expect Luciano’s men to be right on my tail. Their bright and flashy vehicles are distinctive in these streets, so they’re easy to track as I maneuver my way farther away from the villa.

         In the end, I pull into an alleyway and twist the keys out of the ignition, killing the headlights. With bated breath, I wait and watch the rearview mirror in total silence. I don’t even want to breathe in case that reveals my current location.

         If they find me, this is it.

         Ahead of me, the alley ends abruptly with a concrete wall too high to scale. There’s apartments that flank me on either side… would they mind if I burst through their windows and made a hasty escape through their living rooms?

         Shit, they’re probably used to trouble in these parts. I'll never come back here again if I survive this. Mark my words.

         It feels like ages before I see their cars pass by this alleyway, zipping down the streets in search of me. I let out a deep breath, allowing my head to loll against the headrest.

         “Holy shit,” I breathe out. I flex and unflex my fingers, somewhat sore by how hard I was gripping that wheel. “Holy fucking shit.”

         Hidden in the glove compartment, I find a stack of cash that I rightfully claim as mine. Then, I abandon the car with the keys in the ignition and walk the streets until I find a seedy little bar still open.

         They serve me beer and I give them some of the money I just stole. With my phone, I book the soonest plane back to the states with no hesitation.

         I’ve made an enemy of the Matthias family, which will certainly follow me wherever I go. But I’m safer on my home territory than anywhere here. I sip on my beer and pocket my phone, staring at the drunk, dancing couples on the dance floor and the bartender that polishes glasses behind the counter.

         The bar patrons speak to me in broken English, smiling at me because I’m a blond-haired American with a lot of money in my pocket. By the end of the night, I’ve given away all of the money I took from that car and head back to my hotel, looking over my shoulder almost every step of the way.

         That general sense of uneasiness doesn’t leave me until I’m seated on the plane, a redeye non-stop flight to Las Vegas. I’m fully expecting to see a bunch of suited security guards infiltrating the plane, guns blazing, shooting me in my seat until my body is riddled with holes.

         Each minute passes with nervous anticipation. By the time the plane finally rises off the ground, I relax into my seat and ask the nearest flight attendant for some alcohol.

         “Are you sure, sir?” The woman stares at me with a kind smile, but confused eyes. “Most people aren’t drinking at this time. They’re sleeping.”

         “I know that,” I reply simply. “I still need a drink.”

         If only you knew the type of night I had, you wouldn’t be questioning me like that.

         With a nod, she disappears to find me some wine. I crack open my window, staring down at the city lights that I had grown to love, albeit my short stay in Rio de Janeiro. Maybe one day I’ll want to come back here to relive old memories.

         But the Matthias family doesn’t forget old grudges that easily. As long as I’m living and breathing, they’ll be after me. They want me to sleep with one eye open for the rest of my life after wronging their main man.

         Unfortunately for them, I’m as shameless as I am crafty. They won’t bring me down that easily.

         “Here you are, sir,” the flight attendant says, returning with a small bottle of wine. “Would you like anything else?”

         “That’ll be all.”

It takes me a few seconds to crack open the small wine bottle and down it in a few gulps. The burn courses down my throat and comforts me with its warmth, reminding me that I’m still alive. I’m alive to play another day.

Was any of that crazy shit worth it? No, of course not. Days like this make me wonder why I didn’t take some blue collar work back in my hometown. I could’ve lived an honest life. I could’ve made a decent life for myself.

Instead, here I am, fleeing a dangerous family before they gut me alive. My parents wouldn’t be so proud of me.

But these are the cards I’ve been playing with for years. I’ve never been one to tap out and I’m not going to start now, even if it kills me.