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N ikon Matvei fixed his gaze on the young man’s hands through the security feed.

He did not care about the cards they held. They were irrelevant from this angle. But through his private booth’s surveillance feed, Nikon watched as those hands revealed something far more interesting. The boy wasn’t just playing the cards. He was playing the people.

First, he watched as the boy took apart Viktor’s game piece by piece. They called Viktor ‘The Professor’ for his perfect poker math, but this kid had spotted something everyone else missed. When Viktor had a monster hand, he paused for just a split second - a tiny tell that even Nikon’s best dealers hadn’t caught in years of watching. Within an hour, those precise hands had picked up on it and adjusted their bets to match.

“Dmitri,” Nikon addressed the security officer without taking his eyes off the screen, “replay the hand against Toby Yuan.”

The screen flickered to the earlier confrontation. Toby was notorious for using his friendly demeanor to mask aggression, a strategy that had served him well in games across Asia. But this newcomer had read straight through it, folding a strong hand face-up with a quiet “Your three-street bluffs have a different rhythm than your value bets.”

Toby had even flinched, his carefully constructed table image cracking for just a moment.

The third tell showed up in a big pot with Wolfe Bryson and Suzan Jordana. Bryson threw money around like any crypto millionaire would, while Jordana kept her usual ice-cold poker face. But those steady hands never twitched, even as their owner caught the quick glances between the two players. He’d spotted their attempt to help each other win - something even Nikon’s sharp-eyed staff had missed.

“They’re working together,” the young man had mentioned casually to his neighbor at the table, loud enough to be heard. “Shame, since her hand is stronger than his.”

Both players had folded immediately, their cheeks flushed with more than just embarrassment.

“Who vouched for this one?” Nikon asked, his interest thoroughly piqued.

“Corey Sebastian, sir. One of Andrey’s runners.”

Nikon’s jaw tightened. Of course, it would be one of his younger brother’s problems walking into his poker room. He tapped the screen where those precise hands were shuffling chips, emphasizing his next words. “Keep the cameras on this one.” He straightened his cuffs, the motion practiced and precise. “I’ll observe from the floor.”

The security officer nodded once, sharp and efficient, as Nikon moved toward the door. Whatever game Andrey’s people were playing tonight, Nikon intended to see it unfold firsthand.

The private gaming area opened before him as Nikon descended the main staircase, crystal chandeliers casting shadows that danced across the mahogany-paneled walls.

His domain.

Every detail of the room was crafted to his exacting standards. Everything from the sound the weighted chips made as they clinked to the precise angle of each surveillance camera.

He paused at the bar, allowing himself a moment to observe the room’s dynamics without announcing his presence.

The boy was beautiful in a way that made Nikon’s carefully maintained control slip—just a touch. Lean build wrapped in a well-worn but tasteful jacket, dark blond hair that caught the light, and those green eyes that missed nothing. Even the way he moved spoke of natural grace, each gesture precise and deliberate.

Don’t , Nikon warned himself. Not with the clientele.

But his gaze lingered anyway, noting how Reuben’s profile could have been carved from marble—classical features softened by youth, yet sharpened by whatever hardships had led him here.

The security feed had let Nikon stay detached and professional. But now, standing here, watching Reuben handle both the cards and the players so skillfully, Nikon struggled against his growing attraction. The young man was everything he usually fell for - smart, composed, with just enough defiance hiding under those polite smiles. When Reuben laughed at another player’s weak joke, Nikon had to force himself to look away and focus on the game itself.

The smell of aged whiskey and nervous sweat hung in the air, a familiar cocktail that spoke of fortunes made and lost. Crystal tumblers caught the dim poker room light. And ice cracked like distant gunshots as wealthy patrons nursed their drinks between hands. The rich scent of whiskey-warmed leather mixed with hints of gunmetal cologne and cigar smoke that curled beneath the crystal fixtures, creating an atmosphere as carefully crafted as the stakes themselves.

There were six poker players at the main table. Two whales - a tech mogul who’d made his fortune in crypto, and an aging real estate developer who treated hundred-thousand-dollar losses like pocket change. Three seasoned pros who’d earned their places through both skill and discretion. And then there was the boy.

The game was a dance of sharks and prey, but not the usual feeding frenzy. The pros knew better than to scare off the money, while the wealthy players had enough experience to avoid the most obvious traps. A six-handed game meant more action, more pressure, nowhere to hide.

“The usual drink, Mr. Matvei?” The bartender spoke softly over the music.

A slight nod. The glass appeared with three fingers of aged whiskey. The crystal felt familiar in his scarred hands as he watched the boy play. Each move showed skill beyond his years - raising against the crypto kid’s wild bets, backing down from the pros’ pushback, and finding weakness in the developer’s simple style.

Most impressive was what he didn’t do - no flashy moves, no ego plays. Just methodical accumulation when ahead, careful defense when behind. The kind of game that kept both fish and sharks comfortable enough to keep playing, while slowly building an edge.

“Call.” The boy’s voice carried across the room as he faced down Vinh ‘Vinny’ Nam, one pro who’d been crushing games across three continents. The pot had swelled to well over six figures, the largest of the night.

Vinny showed his cards with practiced indifference - kings full of tens. A monster in any game, but especially deadly six-handed. He reached for the pot, already dismissing the new player.

But those hands, still steady, turned over aces full of tens. The higher boat lay there like a quiet accusation.

Vinny’s expression didn’t change, but his knuckles whitened slightly around his remaining chips. The boy had trapped one of the best in the business and made it look natural.

“Sorry about that.” His words were empty, and his hands stayed calm as he collected his winnings.

Nikon’s lieutenant stepped up beside him. “Sir, about the new player- “

A slight lift of Nikon’s finger silenced him. He wanted to watch this next hand play out without distraction. The way the boy arranged his chips spoke of experience beyond underground games—each stack over twenty chips high.

“Who is he?” The question barely disturbed the air between them.

“Reuben Hoyt, sir. Twenty-four years old. Former finance student, graduated top of his class. Been playing mid-stakes games across town for the past year since his last internship ended.”

“And Corey?”

“Claims they were college roommates.”

Of course. Another of his brother’s strays, though this one at least had actual talent.

The boy - Reuben - was currently chipping away at another player’s stack with the precision of a surgeon, each bet calculated to maximize pressure while appearing almost casual.

A minor commotion near the entrance drew Nikon’s attention. Speaking of brothers; Andrey Matvei’s distinct profile appeared in the doorway, his presence sending ripples through the room like a stone dropped in still water.

Tonight was becoming very interesting.

Nikon took another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth settle in his chest as he watched his younger brother’s expression darken upon spotting Corey. There was a story there, one he intended to unravel.

“Sir?” His lieutenant shifted. “Should we intervene?”

“Not yet.” Nikon let the ice in his glass clinked softly. “Let’s see how our new friend handles pressure.”

Andrey made his way to the rail, his attention now fixed on the table with the intensity of a predator.

The next hand dealt, chips scattered across the felt, all while Reuben’s fingers maintained their steady rhythm against his remaining stack.

Thirty minutes and a couple of significant pots later, Nikon had seen enough. The boy wasn’t just good—he was exceptional. The kind of talent that could be either valuable or dangerous, depending on how it was handled. And Nikon had always excelled at handling valuable things.

His phone vibrated. Another message from Grinch. Nikon smirked at using his eldest brother’s hated nickname, even in his thoughts. No doubt Grigorii was still fuming about their argument over expanding the family business.

The message could wait. Right now, he needed to focus on the game below - particularly with how Andrey’s jaw clenched tighter with each passing hand.

Near the table, Corey paced like a caged animal, his designer shoes wearing a path in the expensive carpet. His usual swagger had given way to something more desperate. Another tell, though not one the players below would notice.

Nikon set his empty glass on a passing tray. Time to act before whatever scheme was in play could unfold. He gestured to his security team, positioning them around the room’s exits.

The last hand was inevitable. Reuben’s pocket jacks finding their third on the flop, fourth on the turn against Viktor’s pocket aces. Viktor hadn’t earned his nickname through careless play - fifteen years of crushing the highest stakes games across Europe and Asia had taught him every angle, every psychological edge. His technical precision and mathematical approach to the game had broken countless rising stars.

Which made the setup even more impressive. The defeat of the strongest starting hand in poker, wielded by one of the most experienced players in the room, falling to careful positioning and precise bet sizing from this newcomer—this was skill, not luck, and certainly not cheating.

Viktor’s face remained impassive as the young player stacked his chips.

“Cash me out.” Reuben’s voice carried no triumph, just quiet certainty.

Nikon allowed himself a small smile as he descended the last steps to the gaming floor. Let Andrey think this was about money. Let Corey believe whatever delusion had led him to bring Reuben here tonight. This was about something far more valuable—talent that could be shaped, molded, used.

“I’m afraid,” Nikon’s voice cut through the room’s tension like a blade, “that won’t be possible.”

The boy’s head turned, those steady hands at last showing their first tremor of the night. Green eyes met steel blue, and Nikon saw something he recognized: calculation masked by fear, intelligence tempered by survival instinct.

Nikon felt an irrational urge to protect him. To shield that perfect face from whatever storm was coming.

Foolish , he chided himself. And dangerous.

Still, as chaos erupted and security moved in, Nikon found himself drawn forward not just by duty or opportunity, but by those green eyes that now met his with such calculated fear. Even terrified, Reuben was stunning—perhaps even more so for the way he tried to hide it.

Yes, this one would be interesting indeed.

Through the commotion, Nikon watched his men close in with practiced efficiency. Two seized Reuben’s arms while Andrey personally grabbed Corey by the throat, his rage barely contained. The sharp clink of scattered chips against marble flooring punctuated the scene like broken glass.

But those hands—Reuben’s gifted, treacherous hands—had already told Nikon everything he needed to know. This wasn’t just about debt or discipline.

This was about potential.