Page 7 of Ace of Hearts

Levi

May

Macau, China

Rose Alfieri is an interesting case.

I’ve only known her a few days, but she’s already impressed me thoroughly. Yet I still don’t know anything about her. And, my God, does she know how to hide everything I’m trying to discover. Her face is a clean, blank canvas. A locked safe, impossible to crack. Even her smiles are a false front.

I’m not too surprised to realize I’m pleased by all this. Not because I like safes, but because what’s inside them is usually worth the chase.

Thomas keeps telling me I’m making a mistake, says I’m blinded by my desire for victory and revenge. Back in our hotel room, I just smiled at him as I took off my tie, like the overconfident prick I am, and said, “Have you ever known me to have a bad idea?”

My friend, sprawled comfortably on his bed, seemed unimpressed by my act.

“You mean like those stupid tattoos you have plastered all over your face?”

I stopped short, annoyed. Thomas’s Swedish accent is very strong and sometimes hard to understand, but that little dig was impossible to miss. “You said they were cool!”

“We were pissed that night, Levi. I can’t wait to hear how you feel about them when you’re eighty.”

I didn’t answer because, drunk though I may have been, I’ve never regretted my tattoos. Getting them wasn’t a whim; it was a homage to the cards. A reminder of all they’ve taken from me, and of what they’ve done to me.

Rose signed the contract she insisted on us having, then disappeared for two days after, complaining that she’d have to “sell Carlotta.” I don’t even want to think about what she meant by that.

We’ve been waiting for her at Macau International Airport for ten minutes now. Thomas is muttering to himself, completely furious. He’s not a patient person. And he’s not used to working with anyone but me.

“One more minute and then we’re leaving without her.”

“She’ll come,” I reassure him from my seat in the airport lobby. “She just wants to show us she doesn’t take orders from anyone.”

“What is she, fifteen?”

I don’t reply, because at that moment I catch sight of Rose, wearing high-waisted jeans and a dark-colored camisole underneath an oversized jacket probably meant for a man.

She finishes her cigarette outside the sliding doors without hurrying, then crushes it under her heel.

I shake my head at this bad habit. Seeing her one and only suitcase, I wonder how on earth she’s managed to fit in all her shoes.

It’s enormous, but I’m pretty sure she must have a lot of pairs.

Not wanting to give her the pleasure of seeing me annoyed because she arrived late, I make the introductions with an expression that’s just as neutral as hers.

“Rose Alfieri, Thomas Kalberg.”

She looks him over indifferently, taking in his neat beard and long blond hair pulled back in a man bun, then narrows her eyes behind her vintage sunglasses.

“Oh, you’re the chauffeur from the other day.”

Thomas looks so horrified, it’s comical, and I can’t help smiling. He notices this, of course, and glares at me. A lot of people make the same mistake, and it’s starting to annoy him.

“I’m not his chau—”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Chris Hemsworth? Well ... a lot like him, anyway.”

At least two hundred times, yes. It’s Thomas’s nightmare, and there’s nothing he can do about it. If he didn’t have that vicious scar running over his mouth, he’d be the man’s doppelg?nger.

I smile and give him a teasing pat on the shoulder.

“You have a good eye, Rose,” Levi says in a teasing voice. “He’s actually Chris Hemsworth’s official Swedish double. He does events, including bachelorette parties. For fifty extra euros, he’ll take off his shirt. Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

Strangely, my affectionate nickname doesn’t win him round, and he turns to me and hisses through gritted teeth, “You promised you’d drop that joke. After three years, it’s not funny anymore.”

“I find it hilarious,” Rose says.

Thomas doesn’t look at her as he says to me in a cool voice, “I don’t like her. Let’s leave her here.”

He doesn’t like anyone—except me, of course. But who wouldn’t like me?

“Thomas isn’t my chauffeur. He’s my bodyguard and associate,” I explain to set the record straight. Then I add in a low voice, “And he hates being compared to Chris. We’re not allowed to mention it.”

All this is true, except my best friend does act as my chauffeur when we need to get around. I’m not allowed to drive because of my achromatopsia—my vision isn’t good enough.

“Are you a poker player too?” Rose asks him.

Thomas just nods as if to say, I’m answering you, but I don’t have to like you .

Rose turns to me, looking serious, and says, “I thought you said you were a professional?”

“I am.”

“Only a beginner would think he could have ‘friends’ at a big competition,” she retorts. “Especially at a world tournament worth a few million dollars.”

I resist the temptation to smile. She’s right, and I know it, but she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know anything about my life. I lean dangerously close to her and, intoxicated by her perfume, murmur my response.

“When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it.”

I grab my suitcase and approach the airline check-in counter. I don’t need to turn around to know she’s fuming with indignation. Thomas walks next to me, fighting back a triumphant grin.

Later, on the plane, he pretends to sleep to avoid having to make small talk. Rose would probably have preferred to do the same, but I don’t let her.

I haven’t explained my plan to her yet. I haven’t even told her why winning is so important to me. Thomas would prefer that I not, but I think it’s vital that she know. We need to trust each other a little if this is going to work.

“Tell me about yourself, Rose.”

“How did you learn to play poker?” she asks instead of replying. “I thought it was illegal in Russia.”

I cock my head, surprised that she’s chosen this avoidance tactic. So she doesn’t like talking about herself. Interesting.

“That’s true,” I say, “Betting games are against the law. But in Moscow, there are secret rooms in clubs and high-end restaurants. You have to pay to go in, though.”

“How very James Bond. I like it. Do you organize illegal games in your own club, then? That’s what I’d do.”

“Maybe ... My love of the game comes from my father, who was a well-known player.”

Rose laughs at a joke only she gets. “I’m guessing he must have been either a nasty piece of work or a genius.”

“The former. What about you?”

She hesitates a second, then looks straight at me and says, “What do you mean? Are you asking about my father? Or about how I learned to play poker?”

“Whichever you like.”

She smiles wickedly and stares over my shoulder, out of the window.

“I had a mentor,” she murmurs after a long pause. “At the beginning, it was all about teaching me what he knew. Then, when he realized I was gifted, he used me. I was a godsend for him. A way of getting rich. I liked him too much—so I let him do it.”

I must not be much better than that man, because I understand what he did. I suppose I’m doing the same thing. I wait for her to go on, but unfortunately, she turns the conversation back to me again.

“What exactly do you want me to do for you? Teach you to count the cards? Help you pull off the biggest cheat of the century, Ocean’s Eleven style? Fine by me, but only if I get to be Matt Damon—he’s the best looking and the most intelligent.”

I lower my voice and begin a condensed explanation of what I have in mind. I tell her about Tito and my thirst to win. She asks what I have against him. I say he’s always beaten me and not always honestly. I’m not being entirely forthcoming, but at least what I have said is true.

“Oh, so he cheats.”

I nod. She takes off her jacket, revealing silky, slightly tanned shoulders. Her perfume floats across the row of seats, peach and sandalwood, like the flutter of a distant memory from a sunny olive grove in a remote countryside.

“You should just report him. Problem solved.”

I’m dead set against that. “That would be too easy, and much less fun. I want him to lose, and I want to be the one who beats him.”

She seems surprised by my determination. Thomas is of the same mind. Reporting Tito was the first thing Thomas advised me to do when I talked to him about it three years ago. I repeat now what I said then.

“I’m a man of honor.”

“Says the guy who was cheating the first time I met him,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

I have to smile at that. “That’s different. I wasn’t cheating to win. I was going to win anyway.”

“I thought you couldn’t predict those things?”

“The other guy was sweating like a pig,” I explain patiently. “I didn’t need to be an ace lie detector to know he didn’t have anything more than a pair. He was a terrible bluffer.”

“Then why cheat at all?”

I pause and look at her, intrigued. I’m sure she knows the answer, maybe even feels the same way. Why ask me, then? I play along, shrugging my shoulders.

“For the adrenaline, of course.”

She nods, not saying anything. I explain that we’ll be staying at Caesar’s Palace where the series of tournaments that make up the World Series of Poker are held: fifty-one days, all expenses paid by my sponsors.

We’ll train together when I’m not playing, and she’ll help me while I’m playing too. She makes a face when I say that.

“I’m no expert at tournaments ... but I don’t think spectators are allowed to wander around in the gaming rooms, are they?”

“No, they’re not. But I’ve thought of everything. You’ll be able to walk around the tables as much as you like, so you’ll be able to watch the other players and report back to me on their techniques.”

She still looks unconvinced, but I promise I’ll explain properly at the hotel.

“Sounds an awful lot like cheating to me,” she says. “But OK.”