Filthy Little Games

Ch. 13: The Gambler

QUINTON

The Player's Room is bathed in the golden glow of chandeliers, the shuffling of glossy cards mixing with the soft classical music streaming through the surround sound. A poker table with crisp green felt sits in the center, the six of us gathered around it. My father has a penchant for fueling tension, and tonight is no exception. His intention is clear: to push Damon and me into a battle of strengths. In other words, a poker match. Since we came into each other's lives, my father has pitted me against him. Perhaps because Father could never win against Jonathan, so he made me fight against his son. My father thinks we're at war in business. But he's wrong. The stakes are much higher.

I sit at one end of the table, with Emery beside me. Her presence fuels the silent rivalry. On my right, Sophie watches the game with a manufactured sense of detachment. And on the opposite side of the table, Damon grins with an air of arrogance as Maya cozies up to him, merely a spectator in our wicked games.

As the cards are dealt and the game begins, I steal a glance at Emery, her eyes reflecting the swirling undercurrent of mixed emotions. Important. She said I'm important. I clutch onto that word like it's a fucking life vest. The only thing keeping me afloat.

My father breaks the uncomfortable silence as he checks the flop. "I take it you've both received the invitation to Vincent Wentz's funeral?" he asks, addressing me and Damon. "Will you be attending?"

Damon leans back in his chair, oozing smugness as checks as well. "Vincent and I were never close." His eyes lock onto Emery, a challenge at every glance. "I never did appreciate his unethical practices."

"It's a shame you two weren't friends. You'd have so much in common." I meet his gaze head-on as I throw three black chips into the pot. My father grumbles and tosses away his cards. "Unfortunately, Damon only associates with those who serve his own agenda. Vincent's industry was never appealing to him. Perhaps because he was frightened of the competition."

Damon snorts, peaking at his two cards. With a flat expression, he calls and raises. "I don't mind competition, Quinton. But I prefer an opponent that poses a significant challenge. There's no joy in beating the weak."

Emery's eyes dart between Damon and me, deciphering the meanings in our words. I can tell she has something to say about our not-so-covert metaphors, but she chooses to change the subject, a wise move for a neutral party.

"Vincent Wentz? The Diazenix guy?" she asks. "You knew him?"

"Quinton did. Very well, actually," Damon smirks, a wolfish grin. "I believe if you Google their names, you'll discover just how close they truly were."

My shoulders tense. "There are no friends in business, Cavanaugh. Your father taught me that."

Damon's teeth clench. I've struck a nerve. But it's the truth. Jonathan was never one for small talk. Every time we'd be forced to attend a dinner party, he talked shop, all the time. If it weren't for him, I'd probably of never secured my current position. He might've never had friends. But he had allies in important places.

Sophie sighs, clearly feeling uncomfortable being a part of this conversation. She chirps in, her voice calm yet laced with sarcasm. "Can we please focus on the game?" She double-taps her cards and slides them forward. "Fold." With a sip of her drink, she leans back into her seat and says, "Heads up. This should be fun."

Emery, having folded pre-flop nervously fidgets with her straw as she stares at a quarter of a million dollars in the pot. My gaze flits across the four cards on the felt: the Queen of Hearts, the Eight of Clubs, the Jack of Spades, and the Six of Diamonds. Damon and I exchange one last sharp glance, both understanding that the poker table is just another battlefield in our war, and I call Damon's raise, unwilling to yield to the pressure.