The lounge door creaked open like the gates of a bad omen. He walked in slow, every step echoing heavy on the marble. Mafioso didn’t need a grand entrance — his name was louder than any trumpet.

He tossed his coat on the chair without asking, flicked his cigar ash into the nearest glass.

“Chance…” he said with that slow, gravel-thick accent, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Been hearin’ rumors. Word is, you been hidin’. Duckin’ what’s owed. An’ here I thought we had somethin’... civilized.”

He took his seat across the poker table, fingers tapping against the chips like a funeral march.

“But you? You got some brass ones invitin’ me to a game. Thought I’d humor ya. Letcha play king for one last hand before I take the crown. So let’s play, eh?”

He leaned in.

“But lemme be real clear, kid… You lose? I take everythin’. Capisce?”

He lit another cigar again. The flame flickered.

The game began.