"All in."

Anthony Pickins pushed his last stack of chips into the center of the table, his grin wide, his eyes burning with something between amusement and madness. The tension in the room thickened, the air turning electric as the other players held their breath.

A million dollars sat between him and the man across the table—a man who was very much a killer.

The guy was older, mid-forties, built like someone who had used his fists more than his words to make a living. His suit was expensive, but his patience was running thin. He had already lost more than he expected tonight. His fingers tapped against the table, a subtle betrayal of frustration.

Anthony, on the other hand? He was having the time of his life.

His white suit was crisp, untouched by sweat, his hair slicked back like he had walked straight out of a movie. But it was the smile—the insane, reckless, unpredictable smile—that had the whole table on edge.

"Come on," Anthony coaxed, leaning forward, voice dripping with mock encouragement. "This is boring. If you’re gonna bet, then bet everything. Your house, your kids, your soul. Otherwise, what’s the point?"

Molly had called Number Nine exactly for this.

"Come see this kid," she had said. "He’s either going to get himself killed, or he’s going to own half the city. Either way, he’s your problem now."

So Nine had come. He stood in the doorway now, hands in his pockets, watching the scene unfold. He didn’t interrupt. He just observed.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The older man exhaled through his nose, the vein in his temple throbbing. "You don’t know who the fuck you’re playing with, kid."

Anthony’s grin widened. "That’s what makes it fun."

The guy’s men shifted behind him, waiting for a sign. If Anthony won, there wouldn’t be a happy ending.

And that’s exactly what excited him.

Nine’s gaze sharpened.

This wasn’t about money for Anthony. This was about thrill. The risk. The rush. The fact that winning or losing didn’t matter—only the chaos that followed did.

Nine smirked. Interesting.

Anthony leaned back, tilting his head. "So what’s it gonna be? You gonna call or fold? Or are you too much of a coward to gamble with your own life?"

The room stilled.

A single second stretched into eternity.

The man’s jaw clenched. His pride was screaming at him to play. But the way Anthony was looking at him—**like a shark waiting for the water to turn red—**that gave him pause.

He folded.

A sharp exhale came from the other players, relief and disbelief mixing together.

Anthony? He laughed.

"Smart," he mused, dragging the pile of chips toward himself. "Boring, but smart."

The older man pushed his chair back, standing slowly. His men followed. His pride was in pieces, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to start a war in a place like this.

But before he left, he leaned in, lowering his voice. "You got lucky, kid. But you keep playing like this? Someone's gonna put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours."

Anthony held his smile. "God, I hope so."

The guy stared at him, like he was trying to decide whether he was insane or just suicidal.

Then he left.

Silence settled over the table. The other players started murmuring, some shaking their heads, some laughing nervously. The dealer just let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face.

And that’s when Nine stepped forward.

Anthony glanced up at him, still grinning. "Let me guess. You’re here to tell me how reckless I am?"

Nine tilted his head slightly. "Nah."

Anthony raised an eyebrow. "No?"

Nine pulled out a chair and sat down across from him, smirking. "I’m here to see if you’re worth my time."

Anthony’s eyes lit up.

Finally, someone interesting.