The Gambling System

CHAPTER 1: The day had started like any other

Seated on his throne, Peter Donovan stared down at the kingdom he had built, reflecting on the long and painful road that had brought him here. The rise of a gambler who had once sworn never to take a risk.

This is the tale of how he became the Gambit King.

The day started like any other.

“RISK NOTHING, GAIN NOTHING.”

Peter pulled his scooter to a halt in front of a massive gambling billboard, the slogan glowing brightly. He stared at it, trying to make sense of the words, but the more he thought about them, the more repulsive they seemed.

“Risk nothing, gain nothing?” he muttered under his breath. “No… it should be risk nothing, lose nothing. Risk anything, and lose everything.”

His name was Peter Donovan, a seventeen-year-old pizza delivery boy in Monte Carlo, Monaco. In a city where gambling was the beating heart of the economy, Peter was an anomaly—a teenager who refused to bet his luck. For him, life was simple: a steady job, a beautiful girlfriend, and a loving mother. What more could he possibly need?

“Why risk anything, only to lose everything?” he often told himself.

He sighed and continued his delivery, navigating the bustling streets until he reached his destination: The Chariot Hotel, Room 410.

Peter stood at the foot of the towering hotel, staring up at the endless rows of windows.

“Damn… I hope they have an elevator.”

Unfortunately, the elevator was broken. He climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. By the time he reached the fourth floor, his legs felt like lead.

He stopped in front of the door, catching his breath and fixing his uniform. He had to look presentable if he wanted a tip. When he was ready, he rang the doorbell.

“Pizza delivery,” he announced, forcing some enthusiasm into his voice.

“Coming!” a female voice called from behind the door.

Peter froze. That voice… it was strangely familiar. An uneasy chill ran down his spine.

The door swung open.

Naomi.

His girlfriend stood in the doorway, dressed in nothing but a towel. Her dark hair was damp, clinging to her shoulders, and her lips curled into an amused smile.

“Peter?” Her voice carried a mix of surprise and amusement.

“Naomi?” His stomach clenched. “What... what are you doing here?” his mind racing to make sense of the situation.

Naomi’s smile widened slightly. “Damn. I really didn’t want you to find out this way.”

She stepped aside, revealing a shirtless man lounging on the bed. He was sipping a drink, his gaze locked onto Peter with a smug expression.

Peter’s world tilted.

“Naomi… what do you mean? What’s going on here?” His voice trembled with disbelief.

The man set his drink down and stood, stretching lazily.

“Ah, so you’re the boyfriend she’s been cheating on. How convenient.” He wrapped an arm around Naomi’s waist, pulling her close.

Naomi didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned into the man’s embrace, her eyes meeting Peter’s with an unapologetic smirk.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” she said, voice dripping with insincerity. “But I’ve moved on. I’ve found someone who can give me what I want.”

The man chuckled. “And what you want is clearly not a pizza delivery boy.” He sneered at Peter’s uniform.

Something inside Peter snapped.

“You’re just going to stand there and tell me you’re cheating on me? After everything we’ve been through?” His voice cracked as he fought back the burning sting of angry tears.

Naomi shrugged, her face indifferent. “I never promised you anything, Peter. You were just… a convenient distraction until something better came along.” Her eyes glowed with cruel amusement and malice “And something better has come along.”

The man grabbed the pizza box from Peter’s hands and tossed a wad of cash in his face.

“Take this and leave. We don’t need your services anymore.” He smirked before turning to Naomi. “Unless you have something else to tell him, my love?”

Naomi let out a cold, mirthless laugh. “I think I’ve made myself clear. It’s over, Peter.”

Peter’s heart felt like it had been ripped apart. Without another word, Peter turned and walked away, his mind numb, his chest hollow. Behind him, he could hear the man’s laughter echoing down the hallway. He could feel Naomi’s gaze burning into his back, mocking him.

But he didn’t look back.

He couldn’t.

The air outside was heavy, the clouds gathering like a brewing storm. Peter sank onto the curb in front of the hotel, staring blankly at the pavement, the neon lights flickering above him. The rain started to fall, cool drops sliding down his face--- but he wasn’t sure if they were rain or unshed tears. His hands clenched the fabric of his jeans, knuckles white. His chest ached like it was caving in, crushed beneath the weight of Naomi’s betrayal.

He loved her with every fiber of his being. Sure, she was always high-maintenance, but he made sure to worked extra shifts just to keep up with her lifestyle.

She was his everything.

And she had thrown him away like he meant nothing.

Peter sat there for a long time, unmoving, as the rain began to fall—hiding his tears.

Then, his phone vibrated.

A message from the only other woman in his life.

(Peter, where are you? It’s about to rain.)

His mother.

Taking a deep breath, he wiped his face, rose to his feet, and rode home.

….

When Peter arrived, the trailer park was eerily quiet. Their small, rundown home was dimly lit, the flickering bulb casting shadows along the peeling wallpaper.

“Hey, Mom. I’m home,” he called.

His mother rushed toward him, wrapping her frail arms around him. “Peter, you’re back. I was starting to get worried.” She coughed into her handkerchief.

Peter’s stomach clenched. Her illness was getting worse.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I was just…” He hesitated, swallowing hard.

But she noticed. She always noticed.

“Peter, what’s wrong?” she asked gently.

“Naomi broke up with me.”

His mother fell silent for a moment, then pulled him into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I know how much you loved her.”

“Yeah, Mom. I really did.”

“Come, sit down. Let me make you some hot cocoa. That ought to cheer you up.” She turned, coughing harder this time, blood speckling the handkerchief.

Peter’s heart pounded.

“No, Mom, you need to rest. Please, just take your medicine.”

“Nonsense.” She waved him off, heading to the kitchen. “And after this, I’m calling that little miss to let her know no one breaks my Peter’s heart and gets away with it.”

Peter chuckled weakly. “Oh no, you will do no such thing.”

“Why not?” she called from the kitchen.

“Because that would be mean… and embarrassing.”

“For who?”

“Both of you.”

His mother laughed. “You’re just like your father. Always thinking about everyone else. He’d be proud of the man you’re becoming.”

Peter’s smile faded. He turned to look at the family portrait on the wall—him, his mother, and his father. The more he looked into it, the more memories of a time it was three of them, and they were happy. And one of his favorite memory played back in his head.

It was of six years ago.

Peter sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a deck of cards spread before him. Across from him, his father chuckled, shaking his head.

“Damn, I guess you win this time, Pete.”

Rather than be esctatic about the win, Peter frowned in confusion.

“Mom,” Peter called as she walked into the room carrying a tray of food. “Dad’s one of the best gamblers ever, right?”

“Yes, Peter,” his mother replied.

“One of the best in the entire world,” his father added proudly.

Peter tilted his head. “Then why do I sometimes beat him?”

His mother hesitated. She looked to his father, who simply smiled and leaned forward.

“Never always win, or they will stop you from playing.”

Peter blinked. “What? What does that mean?”

His father’s gaze turned serious. “In gambling—and in life—it’s not just about winning. Sometimes, you need to know when to win and when to lose. That way, you control your losses.”

Peter frowned. “I don’t get it.”

His father chuckled. “You will… in time.”

Six months later, his father was dead. And every night for a long time Peter kept asking himself: Did they take him because he never stopped winning? or was it because he lost too much that they took him.

But none of that mattered now, his father was gone and that was all there is to it. Now it was him and his mother.

Then, suddenly, Peter noticed that the only thing he could hear was the kettle, screaming at boiling point.

“Mom?” he called out

No response.

His stomach dropped.

“Mom?” Louder this time.

Still nothing.

He rushed into the kitchen—and froze.

His mother lay on the floor.

Unconscious.

“MOM!” Peter shouted, his voice cracking as he dropped to his knees.

Thunder roared.

Peter fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembled as he dialled emergency services.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My mom! You have to save my mom!”