Chapter Text
Chance's POV:
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Walking into the casino is always... grounding, in a way I can't quite explain.
The moment those glass doors part, it's like stepping into a different bloodstream entirely—one made of clinking poker chips, low laughter, and the distant hum of roulette wheels spinning like they've never known an end. The air is thick with expensive perfume, cigarette smoke that clings to velvet coats, and the sharp, intoxicating scent of money moving from hand to hand.
It's not subtle. It's not clean. But it's mine.
I've been coming here ever since Mum and Dad died. Not that I advertise that detail. People usually assume it's greed that keeps me at a poker table this often. Let them think that. It's easier than explaining that silence gets louder when you're alone with it.
Is it the healthiest coping mechanism? Probably not. But I get by just fine. That's all that matters, really.
I make my way to the bar, sliding onto a stool like I belong there more than anywhere else in the world. The bartender notices me immediately—he always does.
He's short, curly-haired, nervous in the way most people are when they recognize a name instead of a person.
"What would you like to drink?" he asks, offering a practiced smile.
I return it easily—effortless charm, the kind I've refined without ever meaning to.
"Rum and raisin," I say smoothly.
It does what it always does.
He flushes instantly, nodding a little too quickly before turning away. I watch him go, amused. People always think they're subtle when they're anything but.
When he returns, the drink is set down carefully in front of me, like it might explode if mishandled.
"Here you go, sir," he says, fingers fidgeting with his coat.
"Thanks, darling," I reply lightly, slipping him a wink.
The reaction is immediate. Even redder now.
I laugh under my breath, take the glass, and push off the bar stool, drifting toward the nearest poker table like I've got nowhere else to be in the world.
Which, tonight at least, feels dangerously true.
Mafioso POV:
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"Alright, boys. We got eyes on the target?"
My voice cuts through the static of the walkie-talkie, clipped and impatient. I don't bother hiding the edge in it.
A second passes before Soldier's voice crackles back.
"Which one was he again, boss?"
I exhale sharply through my nose.
Of course.
I press the button again. "His name is Chance. Five-eight. Grey skin. Fuzzy hair. You'll know him when you see him—he has the kind of face that makes people lose money without realizing it."
There's a pause.
Then: "Got it, boss."
I lower the device and lean back in my chair, the wood creaking softly beneath me. My head drops into my hands for a moment.
A small weight nudges my foot.
Gubby.
I glance down, and despite everything, a faint smile tugs at my mouth. The rabbit looks up at me like he owns the place, completely unbothered by the chaos of my life.
I sigh, bending down to scoop him up. He squeaks in protest, offended at the sudden relocation.
"Relax," I mutter.
I scratch behind his ears, the way I know he likes. His body melts almost immediately, betraying his earlier indignation (Did you guys know rabbits purr :0??)
Before I can settle into the rare moment of calm, the walkie-talkie crackles again.
This time it's Caporegime.
"Boss. I think we found him. Do you want to intervene... or should we handle it?"
A slow breath leaves me.
I set Gubby down carefully, standing as I reach for my coat.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," I say.
Click.
The line goes dead.
I pause only long enough to grab my gun and slip on my coat. The weight of it settles comfortably at my side—familiar, reassuring.
Chance has been running for eight months.
Eight months of wasted effort, dead ends, and near misses.
But not anymore.
I step outside and get into the car, the interior filling with that familiar musky scent of leather and old tension. The engine turns over easily. Almost obediently.
The backstreets of Brooklyn are second nature by now. I take them without thinking, cutting through shadows and alleyways until the city starts to feel quieter, more contained.
His casino is impossible to miss.
House of Fortune.
The sign flickers in bright, obnoxious gold—like it's daring the world to doubt its name.
I slow the car outside and take out my walkie-talkie again.
"I've arrived, boys. Where is he?"
Static.
Then Soldier, too loud as always: "Back poker table!"
I flinch slightly, adjusting the volume with a frustrated twist.
"Not so loud," I mutter, more to myself than him.
I step out of the car.
The moment I enter, the atmosphere shifts.
It always does.
Conversations dip. Eyes flick up. People instinctively move aside, like their bodies recognize danger before their minds catch up. I don't rush it. I don't need to.
I spot him easily.
Of course I do.
I walk toward the table, boots steady against the polished floor. He doesn't look up at first. Not until I'm already there.
"Hey. Chance," I say evenly. "I believe you and I have some business to settle."
He turns.
For half a second, something flickers across his face—surprise, recognition.
Then it's gone.
Replaced by a grin so smooth it almost feels practiced.
"Well," he says, voice dropping into something warm and deliberately dangerous, "I don't believe we've met before, handsome. But I'd be more than happy to change that."
I close my eyes briefly. Pinch the bridge of my nose.
Of course.
"I'm not here to be flirted with," I say flatly. "I'm here for your debt. You owe my mafia two hundred and thirty thousand dollars."
A beat.
Then his expression shifts—just slightly. Realization slipping into place behind his eyes.
And just as quickly—
"It'll be on your desk next week," he says smoothly. "Promise."
"I've heard that before."
His smile widens anyway. Unbothered. Infuriatingly so.
"I'll get it to you," he adds, softer now. "Next week, handsome."
I exhale through my teeth.
"You better," I warn. "Or we're going to have some problems."
A pause.
Then, quieter—sharper:
"And stop calling me that, Chance."
His smirk deepens like I've just handed him something valuable.
"Oh?" he says lightly. "Getting under your skin?"
I don't answer.
I turn on my heel and walk out before I give him the satisfaction of anything else.
The casino doors close behind me with a soft, final click.