Page 19 of King of Ruin

After the awkward maneuver of relieving myself in the cold metal toilet, I cross my legs and lean forward, propping myself on my hands. Sleep takes me in seconds.

It’s dark, void of anything coherent, but riddled with screams. Screams of over a dozen voices I can pinpoint. Voices I stopped hearing when Kane arrived.

One is Kilo when he was fighting the pain of detox. Another is Shi on the third day in the woods as she was torturing the man who took her soul. Mine, when I begged my driver to take me back to where my parents lay slain on the sidewalk. Of Maddy, and Antonio. Of victims pleading for their meaningless lives. Of the women I couldn’t save.

And then, all at once, they fade into nothing, leaving only one.

“I wish you knew. Understood. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“This is your kingdom. There’s no disputing that. But when we’re here, like this? You’re mine.”

“Until a bullet stops me.”

Then, as if the opening to a play, a curtain draws back and I watch as me and Kane sit together at a blackjack table in one of my casinos. We had gone to inspect some of the recent inflation but while there, he was able to identify a counter. Even with training that took me years to master, his ability to do it in moments intrigued me. Made me curious as to what else he may be able to notice, or if he himself had once counted cards, making it easy for him to spot one. So much is still unknown about my guard and I wanted to know more than what the few pages of his background check told me.

I watch from above as we venture to the floor, both accepting a house cocktail from a passing waitress. We sit in silence as the pretty dealer shuffles cards and places our chips in the middle of the table to make our wager. When she deals our hands, Kane leans over, his shoulder brushing lightly against mine to get my attention. I remember how intimate it felt. Almost as though we were long-time friends sharing a secret.

“Why are you asking me what to do?” I watch myself hiss.

His eyebrows furrow as he tilts his head. “Why not? It’s not me against you. It’s us against the dealer.”

At the time I thought it was such a silly thing to say. But knowing he wanted my advice, I couldn’t help but make a suggestion when the dealer asked if he’d like to ’hit’ or ’stand’. Kane has a seventeen. It’s a good hand, much better than the other five players, and a lot better than my ten. But the twitch on the dealer’s mouth told me hers was even better.

I motion toward her. “Hit.”

Kane taps the table without hesitation, without throwing me a questioning look or even pondering over the high chances of his loss. Instead, he blindly trusts my call.

I watch as she flips over a four of spades.

Blackjack.

He grins as the dealer moves on to me. “Good call.”

Still in awe, I tap for her to give me another card. “Why did you trust my call?”

“Because you truly believed it was the right one to make. And even if I lost, you’d still have a chance.”

I shake my head. “But what if I was leading you to lose?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes you have to trust what you can’t see. Take a leap of faith and hope that your partner knows something that you don’t.”

The King of Hearts is flipped over on my deck. And after I motion to ’stand’, the dealer reveals her nineteen.

A hard knock jostles me from my dream. Only when I peel my eyes open in a dreary daze, I realize it isn’t a knock.

“It’s time, son. She can eat later.” Phineas’ voice seeps under the door causing all the tiny muscles throughout my neck to tense.

“It’s been almost three days. She needs water.” Kane.

“Two and a half. Why do you seem so concerned about her well-being?”

“If she dies, you won’t get what you want.”

A robust laugh echoes around me and my stomach rolls. “I’ll get what I want with her dead or alive. It will just be a fair amount bloodier with the latter. ”

The door finally swings open and both men walk inside. Phineas doesn’t look much different than he did the other day, still donning an untailored suit while his son’s slacks are pressed and starched. Kane has done away with his jacket and instead wears a crisp white button-up, rolled halfway up his forearms. In one hand he holds a bowl of what looks to be fruit, and a bottle of water in the other.

My mouth gets drier at the sight but somehow I’m able to reign in the quiver working at my lip. I’ve been without food before. Five days was the longest stretch my uncle pushed me to, but never past two without fluids.

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