Page 5

FIVE

BOZO

Nine Years Ago

Aged 16

“I need you to be on your best behavior,” Dad snarls as he grips my shirt in his fist, pushing me against the sitting room wall. “We need this money. I need this money. If I lose this, we’re all dead,” he spits, his eyes wild and filled with fear and hate.

That hatred is directed at me. He hates that I’m able to fight back now. I haven’t always, but I learned that I needed to be able to protect myself. Not just for me but for Grá too.

I grab hold of his wrist and use all my power to rip his hand from me. “What the fuck do you need?” I grunt, pushing him away from me.

He forgets that I’m no longer the small nine-year-old he could bully around to get his own way. No, I’m a lot bigger and smarter than that.

“Do the fucking job I tell ya, freak,” he snaps. “You don’t, and we’re all fucked.”

I laugh. He’s a useless bastard. Always has been. He’s a drunk, and a violent one at that. Not to mention, he loves to gamble, and most of the time he uses money that he doesn’t have.

“You mean you are fucked, right?” I ask with a raised brow.

“Connor,” Mam sighs. “Please, son, no arguing. Just one night.”

She’s getting worse. The cancer has ravaged her body, and over the past few months she’s deteriorated a lot more than any of us had expected. She doesn’t have much longer left.

“Fuck,” I hiss as I turn back to my dad. “What do you need?”

The triumphant smirk on his face is enough to make me want to snap my fist into his jaw. But I refrain—barely. Mam doesn’t need this shit. “You’re playing a no-limit stake poker game in Palmerstown.”

I raise a brow. “Oh? With what money? You’re broke.”

That motherfucking smirk of his grows wider. “That, my son, is where you come in. I know you’ve got money hidden. I finally found it.” He reaches behind the sofa and pulls out the duffle bag that I know has about three-hundred-thousand Euro inside. That fucker, he’s been searching through my room.

“Connor,” Mam says quietly. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “But we need the money for the treatment.”

I swallow hard. Christ, he’s even got Mam in on his bullshit. We all know what the doctor said. The cancer is too far advanced. They doubt any treatment will work. And yet my dad is adamant on trying to push Mam into every fucking drug trial going, despite the fact that it’s making her worse.

I clench my fists, feeling the rage boiling inside me. But I can't lose it, not now. Not with Mam watching, her eyes pleading. I fucking hate that look in her eyes; the sorrow, the pain, the hurt. She’s been dealing with Dad for too fucking long.

"Fine," I growl through gritted teeth. “I'll play, but you’re not coming."

Dad's face contorts with anger. "Now listen here, boy?—"

"No, you listen," I cut him off, stepping closer. "We both know you'll piss all the money away before the first hand is even dealt."

He looks ready to explode, but Mam's weak voice stops him. "Let him do it, Craig. Connor's good with numbers. You know that."

Yeah, and that’s what’s gotten me into this shit. Dad’s been using my brain since I was a young boy and he learned that I was good with numbers. When the doctors later told us that I have an eidetic memory, my father nearly jumped for joy. Dad’s used me as much as he could. He’s made millions off me and pissed it all away.

Dad's nostrils flare as he glares at me, but he knows he's beat. "Fine," he spits. "But you’d better not fuck this up."

I snatch the duffle bag from him. "I won't. Unlike you."

As I turn to leave, Mam catches my hand. Her skin is paper-thin, her bones jutting out. "Be careful, love," she whispers.

I squeeze her hand gently. "I will, Mam. Don't worry."

The drive to Palmerstown takes almost an hour. I can’t believe I’m doing this shit yet again. I thought as I got older, this shit would stop. But then again, I should have realized that my dad would never fix himself up. He’s always going to be a bastard.

As I pull up to the address, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. The building is a rundown warehouse on the outskirts of town. Perfect for an illegal high-stakes poker game.

I grab the duffle bag and make my way inside, nodding to the big, muscular bouncer at the door. The smell of smoke and whiskey hits me as I enter, along with the low murmur of voices and the clinking of chips.

I spot the table immediately—five men, all older, all with the look of seasoned gamblers. One chair sits empty, waiting for me. Damn, my dad sure knows how to set it up to take the money off the high rollers. All of them are watching me with narrowed eyes and barely concealed eagerness. They want to take my money and leave me broke. They’re sorely mistaken if they think that’s how tonight is going to end.

"Ah, you must be Connor," a man with slicked-back gray hair says as I approach. "Craig's boy, right? We've been expecting you."

I force a smile, taking my seat. "That's right. Hope I didn't keep you gentlemen waiting."

"Not at all," another man chimes in, eyeing me. "Though we were surprised when Craig said he was sending his son in his place. You sure you're up for this, kid?"

I don't respond to the condescending tone. Instead, I pull out a stack of cash from the duffle bag and set it on the table. "I'm here to play, not chat," I say coolly, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "Shall we begin?"

The dealer, a young woman with a stern face, nods and begins to shuffle the cards with practiced ease. She deals us all two cards each. Once done, she holds the deck in her hand and stares ahead, waiting for the guy with the slicked-back gray hair to act.

I watch each of them for the first few hands, analyzing their play, learning their tells, and once I’ve settled into the game, I know that I’ve got these guys on the ropes. I’ll have the money Mam needs by the end of the night.

It doesn’t take long before I start raking in the money. It’s easy. These men are old school. They play their own way and don't like to change it up. It’s really easy to find out when they have a good hand and when they don’t. They’re shit at bluffing, which means I’m able to make a fuck ton of money.

"Lucky bastard," one player mutters under his breath as I rake in the biggest pot of the night. Almost six hundred thousand euro in one hand alone. I know that I’m close to a million for the evening.

I just smile, knowing it has nothing to do with luck. It's all about the numbers, the patterns, the tells. And I've been reading them all night.

"Last hand, gentlemen," the dealer announces and begins to deal the cards.

Once play comes around to me, I look down at my cards: a pair of kings. A strong hand but not unbeatable. I keep my face neutral as I glance around the table. The tension is palpable. Everyone knows this is their last chance to recoup their losses.

The first round of betting is conservative. No one wants to show their hand too early. I call, watching carefully as the flop is revealed: seven of hearts, jack of spades, three of clubs. Nothing that helps me, but nothing too threatening either. This flop is the perfect one for me, unless someone’s sitting with a pair in their hand.

The man to my left, a balding man in his late fifties, bets aggressively. The next two players push their cards away, folding, leaving me, Baldy Guy, and Slick Hair left in the game. I call Baldy Guy’s bet as my mind whirls with the possibilities that could happen when the turn is uncovered.

The turn card is revealed, showing the king of diamonds. I have three of a kind. It’s a great hand. There’s nothing right now that can beat me. Of course, that could change once the river hits. Baldy Guy bets again, even higher this time, causing Slick Hair to fold with a muttered curse. I reach for my chips, taking a few seconds to hesitate before raising his bet.

I can see the sweat beading on his forehead; the slight tremor in his hand as he reaches for his chips. He's bluffing. He’s the type of man who doesn’t like to lose, especially not to someone young. He's got nothing and he's trying to bully me out of the pot.

His eyes narrow on me as he re-raises me. I instantly call and watch as his eyes twitch at the move. He’s nervous. Good.

The river card is dealt: ace of hearts. It doesn't change anything for me, but I see the man's shoulders relax just a fraction. I now know that he has an ace in his hand, meaning he’s just paired the ace. He’ll think he’s got this in the bag.

Baldy Guy leans back in his chair, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He's confident now, thinking his pair of aces has saved him. He pushes a large stack of chips into the middle, his eyes challenging me.

"All in," he declares, his voice steady. Okay, so maybe he’s got a little more than just a pair. Glancing down at the cards on the table, I look over them. He’s got at best, two pairs.

The other players at the table lean forward, all of them eager to watch this play out. I can feel their eyes on me, waiting to see what I'll do. I take a deep breath, keeping my face impassive as I consider my options.

I know I have him beat. My three kings are stronger than his two pairs. But there's more at stake here than just this hand. I need to maximize my winnings, to ensure I have enough for Mam's treatment and to finally get the fuck away from Dad when the time comes.

I meet the man's gaze, letting a flicker of uncertainty cross my face. "That's a hefty bet," I say, my voice purposefully hesitant. I’ve sat at card tables since I was seven years old. I’ve played some of the best players in the world. I know what it takes to make people think I’m hesitant about the hand.

He grins, thinking he's got me on the ropes. "Too rich for your blood, kid?"

I pretend to wrestle with the decision, then slowly push my chips forward. "I call."

The man's grin widens as he flips over his cards, revealing the ace of spades to go with the ace on the board. "Two pairs, aces and jacks," he announces triumphantly.

I nod, keeping my expression neutral. "Nice hand," I say, then I slowly turn over my kings.

The man's triumphant grin falters, then crumbles entirely as he sees my cards.

"Three kings," I announce, watching as the realization of his defeat washes over him.

The table erupts in a cacophony of groans and low whistles.

"Three of a kind, kings. Pot goes to the young gentleman," the dealer announces as she pushes the chips toward me.

As I start to rake in the massive pile of chips, Baldy Guy slams his fist on the table. "You little shit!" he snarls. "You set me up!"

I meet his gaze coolly. "I played the hand I was dealt, same as you." I’m more than used to assholes getting rowdy because they lost. Don’t put it on me because you couldn’t fold when you should have. You should never bet money you’re not able to lose.

Slick Hair puts a hand on Baldy Guy’s shoulder. "Easy, Tom. The kid played fair and square."

Tom shrugs off the hand, his face red with anger and humiliation. "Bullshit! No one's that lucky!"

I start packing up my winnings, keeping one eye on Tom. "It's not about luck," I say, zipping up the duffle bag now heavy with cash. "It's about knowing when to fold." I’m being antagonizing on purpose. The man’s been a fucking prick since the moment I sat down.

Tom lunges across the table, his hand reaching for my collar. But before he can grab me, two burly security guards materialize, restraining him.

"That's enough." The new voice cuts through the commotion. The room falls silent as a tall, imposing man steps out of the shadows. I recognize him instantly—Lorcan Black, the man behind Na Cártaí Dubha.

Black's cold eyes sweep over the scene, lingering on Tom, who's still being restrained by the guards. "You know the rules, gentlemen. No fighting, no accusations. What happens at the table stays at the table."

He turns to me, his gaze appraising. "Impressive play, young man. Your father said you were good, but I didn't expect this."

I nod respectfully but say nothing. The less said to a man like Black, the better.

"Tom," Black continues, his voice deceptively soft, "I suggest you leave now. Your debt will be settled by the end of the week, or we'll have a problem. Understood?"

Tom's face pales, the fight draining out of him. He nods jerkily, and the guards release him. He stumbles out without another word, leaving a tense silence in his wake.

Black turns back to me. "Connor, isn't it? A word, if you please."

It's not a request. I follow him to a quiet corner of the room, my grip tightening on the duffle bag.

"Your old man's in deep," Black says without preamble. "Deeper than you know. This win tonight? It's barely scratched the surface of what he owes."

I feel my stomach drop. Of course. Of fucking course. "How much?" I ask, my voice tight.

Black's eyes are cold, calculating. "Let's just say, even if you emptied that bag right now, it wouldn't cover half of it."

I clench my jaw, fury bubbling up inside me. That bastard. That lying, gambling bastard. "I'm not responsible for my father's debts," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady.

Black's eyes narrow, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice when he says, "No, you're not. But you are responsible for your own choices. And right now, you have a choice to make."

I tense, ready for whatever threat is coming. But Black surprises me.

He leans in closer, his voice low. "You've got talent, kid. Real talent. The kind that could make a man very rich or very dead, depending on how he uses it."

I don't like where this is going. "What are you suggesting?"

"Work for me," Black says bluntly. "Use that brain of yours to help run my games. In return, I'll wipe your father's debt clean. You'll be free of him, and your mother will get the care she needs."

I blink, caught off guard. "How do you know my mam?”

He smirks. “I know everything about every single person who comes to my tables, Connor.”

I clench my teeth. Off course he does. I should have realized. “What kind of job?"

"Nothing illegal, if that's what you're worried about," Black says with a wry smile. "I run high-stake games all over Europe. I need someone who can play, who can spot cheaters, who understands the numbers. Someone like you."

My mind races. It's a way out, a chance to pay off Dad's debts and maybe even save enough for Mam's treatments. But it's dangerous. Getting involved with men like Black rarely ends well.

"I need time to think," I say carefully.

Black nods. "You have forty-eight hours. After that, your father's debt becomes due in full." He hands me a business card. "Call this number when you've decided."

As I leave the warehouse, my head spinning, I realize I'm at a crossroads. I can walk away and leave Dad to face the consequences of his actions, or I can dive deeper into this world, hoping to swim rather than sink.

Fuck, I already know the answer to that question. I’m going to dive as deep as I can get. I have to, for Mam and for Gráinne. If I make the money needed, I can ensure that she can escape her life too.