Marbury's smile widened. "If Mr. Gibson dares to play, so do we. Now—let's see the cards."
James gestured toward them. "By all means. Show me how strong you think you are."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
David Koch revealed his cards first, sliding them across the felt with the calmness of a man who had done this game a thousand times. The dealer's white hands fanned them out, pairing them with the community cards in the center of the table—five shared cards every player could use to build their best hand. Two pairs—respectable, but far from the top.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Koch. I have three of a kind." Gilson Marbury laid down his hand with a smile. The dealer repeated the process, stacking his three eights into order—a stronger combination, three of the same rank.
"Not bad," Koch said easily. He wasn't the type to sulk over tens of millions. "Mr. Marbury takes this one." He leaned back, unfazed, though his eyes narrowed with the instinctive competitiveness of a man used to winning. His gaze slid toward James. "Now, let's see what you're holding."
James gave a soft shrug, his expression indifferent. "Apologies, gentlemen. Three of a kind too… only mine wear crowns." He turned his cards, the two queens flashing under the chandelier light. The dealer swept them in with the public cards, confirming the combination—three queens, enough to beat Marbury's eights. The table stiffened for a moment, then relaxed into murmurs.
"Impressive," Donald Trump quipped, voice carrying more curiosity than praise. "Queens at the bottom of your stack? That's not bad luck at all."
Koch gave a small scoff. "Beginner's fortune. Happens often. Pair at the start can carry a hand. Nothing unusual."
The disdain was deliberate. James caught it but let it pass with a faint smile. His chips were being stacked neatly by the servants—more than a hundred million slid into his control. That was satisfaction enough.
Across the table, Marbury's expression betrayed a flash of regret. He'd been close, and close meant nothing at this level. James noted it, the smallest twitch of frustration in a man who prided himself on composure. That was the real win.
Leaning slightly, James murmured to Stark at his shoulder. "He's stretched thin. Am I right?"
Tony tilted his head, considering. "Think so. He's developing a new plot in Manhattan. An expensive one. Prime plot of land, but he's bleeding cash to cover it."
James nodded once. Useful leverage. He ordered a glass of juice from a passing servant, ignoring the amused look Stark gave him. The table was drowning in whiskey and cigars, but James preferred having a clear head.
The third hand was dealt. James read his cards immediately, Cortana's overlay confirming what he already suspected. This round wasn't his. He tossed away a million casually, folding without a hint of concern. Marbury lost again, five million gone chasing nothing, and for the first time that evening, the host's mask cracked. His jaw clenched; his posture shifted just enough to show irritation.
James didn't comment. The cracks would widen on their own.
The night wore on, hand after hand. James picked his battles, winning three consecutive rounds with Cortana's help. Every chip he claimed added pressure on the table. Koch and Marbury bled the heaviest, their stacks shrinking until they finally collapsed. Both were cleaned out, their seats bare of any chips.
James's pile, by contrast, towered over the table. More than three hundred million worth of chips gleamed under the light. He leaned back, finally letting a trace of satisfaction into his voice. "The gentleman earlier was right—this is faster than running an industry. Much faster." His eyes drifted to the empty spots in front of Koch and Marbury. "Do either of you plan to buy back in? We've only played six hands. The night is still young."
Koch's lips pressed thin. His pride was pricked, but his wealth insulated him. A hundred million was barely a scratch to a man worth tens of billions. Losing it was irritating, but not ruinous. Still, James's arrogance grated them.
"Another hundred million," Koch announced.
The servant looked uncertain. "Mr. Koch, forgive me, but we've only prepared six hundred million in chips tonight. That's the limit. What remains are only small denominations."
James interjected smoothly, his tone casual but cutting. "You can write a check. I'll cover it with my stack. In the end, the chips are just symbols. One way or another, the money changes hands."
Koch's eyes flickered. "Aren't you afraid I'll win it back?"
James spread his hands. "Not at all. If you do, I'll hand the check back. No difference." His voice carried a disarming calm, the kind that irritated men who thrived on control.
Koch snarled, then scribbled the check with a flourish. The servant exchanged it for a hundred million in chips drawn directly from James's mountain.
Marbury hesitated. His pride as host was on the line. "As the host," he said at last, forcing a smile, "I can't step away. One hundred million more." He wrote his own check, sliding it across.
The dealer redistributed, their towers of chips rebuilt. The game continued.
James played carefully. Cortana tracked every shuffle, every deal. He couldn't manipulate the deck—luck still ruled—but he didn't need constant wins. Losing occasionally was more normal. He allowed chips to trickle back across the table, enough to make it look natural, enough to keep suspicion from forming. Yet the flow always bent in his direction.
An hour later, the outcome was undeniable. Every man at the table was bleeding dry. Chips scattered in small stacks, less than ten million each. Only James's pile remained vast, more than two-thirds of the table's wealth sitting before him.
Robert Mercado broke the silence. "Gentlemen, that's enough. Let's make this interesting. One last round. All in. Winner takes all. What do you say, Mr. Gibson? I suspect you'll walk away the victor anyway."
He spoke lightly, but his eyes were sharp. A media king worth billions, his empire built on perception. He saw through James's calm more than the others.
James leaned forward, expression unreadable. "I have no objection."
The rest agreed.
The dealer prepared the last hand. Cards dealt, community cards lined face down. James scanned the order as always. His brow furrowed.
This time, the winning hand wasn't his. It belonged to Gilson Marbury.
His fingers drummed on the table. If Marbury walked out with a win here, he'd still limp away from the night wounded but alive. James's plan to corner him financially would collapse. The mission's window might close.
He bent toward Stark, voice low. "How bad is he in debt?"
Tony frowned. "You're planning something."
James's reply was quiet steel. "If this doesn't land, force will be the only option. And I don't like our odds against that ring."
Stark exhaled. "At least a billion, maybe more. High-end apartments, at Central Park side. Bought the land too high. He needs cash fast. If he doesn't find it, he'll be in trouble."
James nodded once. The math lined up. Loans meant interest, partners meant diluted profit. Neither were palatable to a man like Marbury. He would fight tooth and nail for liquidity. That desperation could be his undoing.
But this hand—this last round—would decide whether subtlety prevailed, or whether steel and blood would follow.