The Gambling System

Chapter 4: Black

Her smirk widened into a grin. “All of it? Big move, kid.”

She frowned slightly as she appraised and checked through each chip to make sure they were valid and legit, before stacking the 25 chips, each worth a thousand euros. For a moment, she hesitated, then said quietly, “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

She slid the chips across the counter. Peter stared at them like they were grenades waiting to go off. His hands shook as he picked them up.

As he turned to face the tables, the weight of what he was about to do hit him. This wasn’t just about money. It was about his mother’s life.

And now, there was no turning back.

Peter stepped onto the gambling floor, gripping his chips like they might vanish if he let go. The noise hit him like a wave—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses and chips, the mechanical whir of slot machines. It felt overwhelming.

And the stares—he could feel them. They weren’t just glancing this time. People were whispering, pointing.

“Is that what I think it is?” someone murmured, nodding toward his necklace.

“It has to be a fake,” another voice replied.

Peter ducked his head, his heart pounding. He barely heard the murmurs as he scanned the room.

A dealer approached him, dressed in a crisp black vest and tie. “What’s your game?” the man asked, his tone professional but his eyes curious.

Peter glanced around, searching for something familiar. His eyes landed on a table. “Blackjack,” he said.

The dealer led Peter to a blackjack table, where a few players were already seated. Peter chose the game because it was the only one he’d ever played. Not in a casino, but with his father. They used to play it all the time, until... well.

He ran through the basics in his head. Blackjack was simple: Get as close to 21 as possible without going over. Numbered cards were worth their face value. Face cards—Jacks, Queens, Kings—were worth 10, and Aces could be either 1 or 11. The dealer had to play too, but they followed strict rules: they couldn’t stop drawing cards until they hit at least 17.

It sounded easy on paper, but Peter knew better. Blackjack wasn’t just about luck; it was about strategy. One wrong decision could cost him everything.

He sat down, gripping his chips so tightly his knuckles turned white. The dealer shuffled the cards with an elegant flourish.

Peter placed his first bet—two chips, two thousand euros. The dealer slid two cards toward him. Peter looked down: King of hearts. Six of clubs. Sixteen. His throat tightened.

The dealer revealed his face-up card: a seven.

“Hit,” Peter said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The dealer slid him a card. A five. 21.

Peter’s chest loosened, a breath escaping him. He’d won. He clutched his winnings—3, 000 euros—and placed them back on the table for the next round.

The cards came fast this time. An Ace. A ten. Blackjack.

“Damn,” someone muttered, impressed.

Peter’s pile grew to 4,500 euros. His nerves gave way to a flicker of confidence.

He doubled down. Every chip he had—27,500 euros—pushed forward. The cards fell: a nine and a two for Peter. The dealer revealed a ten, then a King. Bust. Peter won again. His pile grew to 41, 250 euros.

The table fell quiet. The other players were now watching him, their own games forgotten. Peter couldn’t help it—he smiled. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

Peter knew he couldn’t rely on blackjack alone. If he wanted to hit 100,000 euros, he needed a bigger game. That’s when he spotted the roulette table.

The roulette wheel was mesmerizing, its numbered slots alternating between red and black, with a single green zero for the house.

The rules were simple. You could bet on a specific number for a big pay-out, or play it safer and bet on a range of numbers—or a colour, red or black. Peter decided to bet on black. It felt safer.

He placed 20,625 euros worth of chips—half his winnings—on black. The crowd gathered closer, sensing something big.

The croupier spun the wheel, and the small white ball clattered as it bounced between the numbers. Peter’s heart thudded in time with its rhythm.

Red.

The croupier swept away his chips, and Peter’s stomach dropped like a stone. Half his money, gone in an instant. He gripped the edge of the table, willing himself not to collapse.

“Rough night, huh?” a voice said behind him.

Peter turned to see a man watching him. He was older, sharp-eyed, and wore a suit that probably cost more than Peter’s entire life savings.

“Domini Falcone, house owner,” the man said smoothly, extending his hand.

Peter ignored it. “Well, the house took half my money, so it’s not exactly a pleasure,” he muttered, trying to hide his shaking hands.

Falcone smirked, his gaze drifting down to Peter’s necklace. “That’s an interesting necklace you’ve got there,” he said.

Peter instinctively clutched it. “What’s it to you?”

Falcone shrugged. “Call it curiosity. Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift.”

“How much would you trade it for?” Falcone asked casually.

“It’s not for sale.”

Falcone’s grin widened, but his eyes glinted with something darker. There was no way he was letting Peter leave without that necklace. Falcone was more than just the house owner—he was a collector of gambling relics, and he knew exactly what Peter’s necklace was.

The Joker’s Necklace.

It had many names over the years, but one thing was clear: it was rare, and valuable.

“Tell me—how much do you need?” Falcone asked.

Peter frowned. “What?”

“You’re not here for leisure, are you? You’re here for a fixed amount. How much do you need?”

Peter hesitated. Then the words tumbled out. “A hundred thousand.”

Falcone tilted his head, intrigued. “Here’s the deal. You take the rest of your chips, put them on one last bet. If you win, I’ll give you the 100,000 euros.”

Peter blinked, stunned. “And if I lose?”

“You give me the necklace.”

Peter’s stomach twisted. He knew how much the necklace meant for to father, and he could picture how disappointed he would to find out that he lost it, but picture his mother’s face too—pale, fragile, waiting for him to save her.

Peter swallowed hard. “Fine,” he said.

Peter placed all his remaining chips—20,625 euros —again on black. The crowd pressed closer, the weight of their stares settling on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. The tension in the air was suffocating, thick enough to choke.

The croupier’s hands moved with practiced precision, spinning the wheel with a flick of the wrist. The roulette wheel spun, its numbers and colours blurring together in a dizzying spiral.

Peter's eyes locked onto the ball as it clattered against the spinning wheel. The sound was sharp and chaotic, like the ticking of a bomb about to explode.

His breath hitched.

The ball jumped, bouncing erratically between the numbered slots. Each time it struck the metal dividers, it sent a hollow ping echoing in Peter’s ears.

He couldn’t look away. His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of his chest.

The ball continued to bounce, refusing to settle. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the chatter dying down to a heavy silence. Even the croupier was watching now, his usually calm expression tightening with anticipation.

The ball skimmed the edge of a red slot, and Peter’s heart dropped.

“No,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

It bounced again, flirting with black. Peter’s pulse surged, hope flooding his chest like a shot of adrenaline.

“Come on,” someone in the crowd muttered.

The ball wobbled, teetering dangerously between red and black. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Peter swore he could hear every sound in the room—the hum of the lights, the faint rustle of clothing, the shallow breathing of the crowd around him.

It hit black. Peter’s chest heaved as relief surged—

Only for the ball to bounce one last time.

The crowd gasped.

It wobbled, hesitated, and then…

Red.