Page 4 of Forged

“Yeah. I’m going to be here for a while. If I’m stuck in this heat, I’d like some entertainment.”

Hale lifts a brow. “Entertainment?”

“Poker,” I clarify. “I play.”

Cash chuckles. “We’ve heard. Rumor is you cleaned out half a room in Chicago.”

“Exaggerated.” I smirk. “Mostly.”

Hale grins and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a plain card with nothing but his name and number. He scribbles an address on the back and hands it over. “Show security that card. They’ll let you in. Just know the table’s full of old rounders and young sharks.”

I take it, amused. “I’m not walking in to lose.”

“Good,” Cash says. “Blow off steam if you need to. But don’t forget why you’re here. Austin can be full of distractions if you don’t stay focused.”

I pocket the card. “Don’t worry about me staying focused. I’m here to do one thing.”

When I get backto the condo, I shrug out of my jacket and hang it in the closet, smoothing the sleeve. The holster comes next, unclipped and sat carefully on the bed beside the spare magazines. I line up my shoes, set my watch on the nightstand, and take a second to appreciate the quiet, then I strip and step into the shower.

I turn the water as hot as it will go. It borders on uncomfortable, but I welcome it. The heat seeps into my shoulders and down my spine, easing tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. My muscles loosen, my breathing steadies, and by the time I turn off the water and towel off, I feel completely reset.

I dig into my duffel and grab a stack of wrapped bills. I don’t know the blinds yet, but I grab enough to make sure I can defend my stack. I opt for a black button down and jeans, then head back into the main room. Hale’s card sits on the counter where I left it. I slide it into my pocket and grab my keys.

The address pullsme into a stretch of Austin most people refuse to acknowledge—warehouse shells repurposed for transactions that shouldn’t see the light of day. Streetlights buzz overhead. Alleys sit dark and quiet and the air carries the weight of money that doesn’t move through banks.

I park in an adjacent lot and step out into the humid night air. Approaching the building, I see a single guard leaning against a steel door, cigarette ember glowing. He straightens when he sees me.

“Who sent you?” he asks, tone flat.

I pull out the card and hold it between two fingers.

His eyes flick to the name, then to me. He crushes the cigarette under his boot and knocks twice on the metal door.

It opens with the heavy click of a lock disengaging. Inside, the city noise dies instantly. Just the soft shuffle of chips, the taut snap of cards, and the promise of money drifting through the space.

A hostess behind a podium glances up. “Buy-in?” I drop a hundred grand between us. She nods, gestures toward the back. “Table four, seat six. Blinds are two-five.”

I take my place at the table, and a tray of chips is placed in front of me. I empty the tray, stacking them to my liking. Blinds are two thousand-five thousand. There’s nothing friendly about this game.

Then I survey the players. They match Hale’s description, old money and new money sit side by side. The usual mix of men who think money is the same as power.

And then in seat two, there’s a woman.

Her blonde hair is pulled into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, a few strands slipping forward to brush her collarbone. Her nails are an elegant, glossy nude. Her mouth—painted a dangerous shade of red—is curved in a way that says she knows exactly what she’s doing sitting at this table. Dark eyes, more black than brown, shine with amusement.

Her attire is too stylish for a backroom game like this—a silk top, a delicate gold necklace resting at the hollowof her throat. She sits with a kind of confidence that borders on unnerving. She radiates calculation.

I clock her stack: healthy and organized. Her confidence isn’t performative—it’s the kind that’s built on results.

I call my blinds for a couple of rounds to get a feel for the table, then I start to play, winning a few sizable pots. I’m comfortable with my stack and finally feel like I can make some moves. When I’m dealt something decent—pocket sevens—a hand begins to unfold.

The kid in seat five has been hemorrhaging chips in the short time since I sat down. He’s in his mid-twenties and throwing around too much money. Arrogance radiates off him.

He raises big before the flop. I’m weary of a higher pair, and don’t care to dump my stack to a reckless player, so I fold.

She calls without blinking.

The dealer lays down the first three cards: Queen of Clubs, nine of Spades, four of Diamonds.