Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.
-Friedrich Nietzsche
Preface
The Devil came out to play, bargaining lives for a price, sending those to Hell who crossed him.
1
Cyrus
I’m the king. This is my castle, and if I had a throne, I’d be fucking sitting on it.
I set my cognac glass on the staircase’s banister, watching it teetering near the edge. Below me, one of my subjects holds court in my mansion, no shits given, but once I descend the steps, he’ll remember his place.
I own him.
I own everyone here.
Officially, my bank is the wealthiest private bank in the world. Unofficially, it is the gateway to the underworld. Every penny earned by criminals passes through me. Unlike most of the banks on Wall Street, I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. The money that lies in my vaults is dirty as fuck because I don’t cater to a normal clientele.
No.
Mine is of a different breed.
The lowest dregs of life.
They are drug dealers. Gunrunners. They are the cartel and the mafia. At times, they are even the shady politicians who run countries, and the trust fund babies who fuck up.
To them, I’m their savior. No more hiding bags of cash under their beds. Nope. Instead, they all come to me to clean their money and, once it’s spotless, grow it.
Even though I’m technically one of them—a criminal—I can’t stand them. Although that really means nothing, as I can’t stand anyone. But their cash is green. Fuck, theirs might be greener. A new shade stained by the life taken to make it.
Tonight, the money they don’t deposit in my bank will be brought here instead. It will arrive dirty, smeared with the sins from which they earned it, but by the time the evening ends, the tainted blood will be gone, and they’ll leave with bills as clean as freshly washed laundry.
My house is ready, and the staff is prepared. The game will begin soon, so all I have to do now is wait.
I hate this shit, but it’s a necessary evil. Here, I’ll learn secrets. Possess fortunes. I will amass an empire.
This is my corrupt kingdom, where I am a god.
Time comes to a halt as I wait at the top of my stairs. My gaze drifts across the foyer as each guest arrives. The crowd assembles in the center of the room, waiting for instructions, but really, they’re waiting for the poker game to start.
Sometimes, I only observe. Sometimes, I don’t even bother to come down. I’m not always needed. The fact that I host the game is enough to keep the players in line. Today, I’ll venture downstairs.
I want to monitor a new guest who will be attending. Someone I have been luring for years. He hasn’t arrived yet, but my sources say he has taken the bait. Once I have the opportunity, I’ll set the trap.
As I wait, I notice a few unfamiliar faces that I need to vet before they can play. I can tell tonight will be worse than most nights, and that is saying a lot. Some of the seediest men I know are among the crowd.
I see the irony. Judging men who are no different from me.
They kill.
I kill.
But there is one difference. I only kill when I need to.
Some of these dipshits kill for sport.
To prove they are men.
None of this shit makes them a man. Since they don’t see that, there really is no helping them. So, I just clean their money and bleed them with interest instead.
Yet even knowing this, they stand here in my house, offering me their souls. I have enough leverage to bring them all down. But there’s only one I’m looking for.
With a shake of my head, I walk in their direction with slow and deliberate steps. Sizing them up, one by one.
Until I find him, I’ll search for the big offenders and then signal Z. He will be my second pair of eyes and ears and watch them.
At first, I notice the usual crowd—rich douchebags who have nothing better to do than spend their daddy’s money. I know the type, and I fucking hate the type.
On the other side of the room are the drug dealers, mafia members, and dirtier than fuck politicians.
Each group is important to my operation. One washes the other’s hand. Most of the people in this room are on my client lists. My banking does the heavy load of cleaning, but what I can’t clean that way, I clean through my poker game. That’s why the rich boys are here. They don’t know how to play; they know how to lose.
With drinks in hand, the men sit at the tables. The crowd tonight is not as large as usual, so only a few tables are set up, each ranging from eight to ten players. It’s a healthy mix of legit versus illegal.