Deep in Hell's Kitchen stood the Maggia's crown jewel—a sprawling, neon-drenched club that bled money for the crime family 24/7. Even at 3 a.m., the place pulsed like a living thing, lights blazing, music thumping. More than a dozen armed goons loitered at the entrance, guns barely hidden under their jackets.
Daniel strolled up like he owned the night. Two guards immediately blocked him.
"Routine check."
"No problem."
He let them wave the wand over him. Everything dangerous was tucked safely in his Game Inventory anyway.
"Clean. Go in."
He stepped inside and the noise hit him like a wall.
The club was a maze of sin: bars, dance floors, private booths. Daniel ignored it all and made a beeline for the casino section. Half-naked dealers leaned over tables, chests threatening to win more tips than the house. Gamblers drooled—hard to tell if it was the cards or the view.
Daniel slid into an empty seat at a Sic Bo table. The dealer flashed her practiced million-dollar smile.
"Welcome, handsome. What'll it be?"
"Fight the Landlord."
"…"
Her smile froze. "Sir, we don't have that here."
"Big Two?"
"No."
"Tractor, then?"
"NO!"
The dealer looked ready to develop stress cysts. Is this guy here to gamble or start a fight?
Daniel pouted. "Lame. Fine—Sic Bo it is."
"Thank you, sir."
Relief washed over her face. She grabbed the dice cup and started shaking like her life depended on it. Daniel's eyes locked onto the cup—damn, those hands were fast. The cup, I mean.
After a solid ten seconds she slammed it down.
"Place your bets."
"All in! Big!"
He flicked a single stolen chip forward.
Dealer: "…"
That's your all-in?
(He'd lifted it off some drunk whale two tables over. The guy was too busy crying into his whiskey to notice.)
She lifted the lid. 5-5-6. Sixteen—Big.
Two chips slid his way.
"Congrats, sir. Again?"
"Obviously."
Ten minutes later.
"Deh deh deh deh deh~"
Daniel sipped his free cappuccino, humming happily. A respectable hill of chips now sat in front of him—easily half a million USD.
The dealer's voice cracked. "S-still playing, sir?"
Fifty straight wins. This wasn't luck. This was a walking nightmare.
"Of course!"
She started shaking the cup like she was trying to summon a demon. To distract him she tugged her neckline lower—danger zone achieved. Five full minutes of furious rattling later, she finally stopped, sweating bullets.
Daniel shoved the entire mountain forward without looking.
"All in. Triple!"
She swallowed acid, hands trembling as she lifted the lid.
6-6-6.
Leopard! Thirty-six times payout!
The chip mountain became a skyscraper. The dealer quietly opened her phone and started browsing funeral packages. Losing ten million plus in one night? The Maggia would use her as chum.
A towering enforcer in a black suit appeared beside the table, glare sharp enough to cut glass.
"Sir. A word. Now."
"What, sore losers already?" Daniel raised his voice on purpose. Every head in the pit turned.
The enforcer forced a smile that hurt his face. "No, no. Just…the stakes here are too high for this table. We have a VIP room with bigger limits. Much more fun."
Translation: follow me to the back and disappear.
Daniel grinned like a kid on Christmas.
"Nah. Tell you what—wire me a clean hundred million right now and I'll leave peacefully."
The enforcer's eye twitched. "You might as well rob us blind!"
Daniel's smile went feral. He whipped out a gleaming gold Desert Eagle that looked like it belonged in a rap video.
"Funny. That was exactly Plan A."
"Everybody on the floor! This is a robbery!"
Meanwhile, in a private lounge deeper inside.
"Hammerhead" the Russian mountain of a man lounged on a leather couch, his freakishly large skull gleaming under the dim lights. Two terrified dealers were currently his personal stress balls.
Across from him sat a prim man in black-rimmed glasses—Wesley.
"Have you considered Mr. Kingpin's offer?"
Hammerhead didn't even glance up, busy groping. "Tell Fisk to come himself if he wants to talk."
"Mr. Kingpin is extremely busy, but he has given me full—"
"Then we're done here."
Wesley's eyes narrowed. "Word is this new 'Demon Gang' has been hitting your operations hard. Kingpin could solve that problem for you."
Hammerhead barked a laugh, slamming his steel-reinforced forehead against the table—thud.
"I don't need help from fat men in white suits! That Demon Gang trash? I'll crush them myself!"
"You can't even scratch my skull with bullets! Some punk gang thinks they can touch the Maggia in Hell's Kitchen?"
"In this city, nobody—"
BOOM!
The door nearly flew off its hinges.
A panicked underling stumbled in, face white.
"BOSS! WE'RE BEING ROBBED! RIGHT NOW!"
Hammerhead: "…"