The Tyrant's Return : From Beggar to Sovereign

Chapter 18: The Master of the Cards

The entire VIP poker section went completely dead silent. The rich young heirs sitting around the table forgot how to breathe as they stared at the massive pile of green cash spilling out of Ethan’s black bag. Five million dollars. It was sitting right there, crisp and beautiful under the sparkling lights.

Marcus Vance stared at the money, his jaw tightening so hard that a thick blue vein burst out on his forehead. The mocking smile completely vanished from his face. He slowly pulled his hand out of his red velvet jacket pocket, leaving the tiny glass vial hidden inside for now.

"Five million," Marcus muttered, his voice dropping into a dark, angry growl. "You really think you can come into my house and scare me with a bag of paper? Fine, househusband. If you want to lose your sister's life savings in five minutes, I will gladly take it. Card dealer, distribute the cards!"

The professional card dealer dressed in a black vest shivered with nervousness. His hands shook as he quickly mixed the glossy plastic cards, slid them across the green felt table, and gave two hidden cards to each player.

The game was Texas Hold 'Em poker. It was a game of pure math, nerves of steel, and the ultimate psychological warfare. Marcus looked down at his two hidden cards and saw a pair of red kings. A massive, winning hand. He looked across the table at Ethan, trying to find any sign of fear, sweat, or hesitation on the young man's face.

But Ethan’s face looked like it was carved out of solid, unbreakable marble. His dark eyes were perfectly calm, tracking the tiny movements of Marcus’s facial muscles. He did not even look down at his own cards. He just pushed a massive stack of one million dollars into the center of the table.

"One million," Ethan said smoothly, his voice completely flat.

"I call!" Marcus shouted, tossing his own million dollar chips into the pile.

The dealer placed three community cards face up on the table. A king, a seven, and a three. Marcus almost laughed out loud. He now had three kings. It was an unbeatable combination.

He immediately pushed all his remaining chips forward. "Three million dollars! Let’s see if you have the guts to stay in the game, driver!"

The other heirs at the table gasped, shaking their heads. They thought Ethan was completely insane to play against Marcus on his own turf.

Ethan finally reached down and flipped his two cards over for everyone to see. A five and a six of hearts. They were completely useless cards by themselves.

But Ethan looked directly into Marcus's eyes, seeing the slight twitch in Marcus's left eyebrow and the way his fingers gripped his whiskey glass too tightly. Ethan knew exactly what Marcus was thinking. Marcus was overconfident, blinded by his own greed.

"I raise," Ethan said, his voice echoing through the quiet room. "Everything in the bag. Five million dollars."

The dealer placed the final two cards on the table. A four of hearts and a 7 of hearts.

Marcus's eyes widened as he looked at the board. A flush. Five cards of the exact same suit. Ethan had just hit a perfect running flush at the very last second.

"No! That is impossible!" Marcus screamed, standing up so fast that his heavy leather chair tipped over backward and crashed onto the floor. "You cheated! You must have changed the cards under the table!"

"The cards were distributed by your own worker, Marcus," Ethan said softly, leaning back in his luxury chair. He waved his hand, and Thomas stepped forward to pull the massive pile of winning chips and cash toward their side of the table. "You lost because you are too predictable. When you get a good hand, your left eye twitches.

You are weak."

The rich young heirs around the table whispered in absolute shock. Marcus Vance, the terrifying boss of the underground district, had just lost five million dollars in a single round to a man he called a beggar.

"Again!" Marcus roared, his face turning an ugly, bright shade of purple. He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with his silk sleeve. "We play again right now! I am not done with you!"

"You have no more chips, Marcus," Ethan reminded him, his eyes looking down at the empty spot on the table in front of the gang leader. "You are completely broke."

"I have my luxury sports car parked downstairs!" Marcus yelled like a manic beast, tossing a gold car key onto the green felt. "A custom built, limited edition vehicle worth two million dollars! I bet the car!"

Ten minutes later, the gold car key belonged to Ethan.

"I bet my luxury villa on the west side of the city!" Marcus screamed twenty minutes later, his red velvet suit jacket now torn open at the collar, his hair messy, and his breathing loud and frantic. He looked like a crazy homeless man instead of a powerful criminal prince.

Thirty minutes later, the deed to the luxury villa was resting under Ethan’s palm.

Ethan had ruthlessly stripped Marcus of everything he owned. He used his advanced psychological reading to predict every single move Marcus made.

If Marcus had a bad hand, Ethan knew it by the way he breathed. If Marcus was trying to bluff, Ethan saw the tiny shake in his fingers. Ethan was not just winning a game of cards; he was systematically destroying Marcus’s pride, his status, and his sanity in front of his closest wealthy allies.

The other heirs at the table began to back away slowly, pulling their chairs into the shadows. They could see that Marcus was losing his mind, turning into a dangerous, wounded animal trapped in a corner.

"You think you are a god now, Ethan?" Marcus laughed, a terrifying, insane sound echoing from his throat. He stood there, his body shaking with pure, unadulterated hatred. He had lost his money. He had lost his car. He had lost his house.

If word got out to the rest of the city that he had been completely ruined by a househusband, his street gang would desert him by morning.

Ethan stood up slowly, fastening the button of his sleek black tuxedo coat. He looked down at the broken, manic gang leader with absolute contempt.

"The game is over, Marcus," Ethan said, his voice freezing the air in the VIP lounge. "Hand over the glass vial in your pocket, and I might leave you with enough money to buy a bus ticket out of this city."

Marcus’s face twisted into a demonic, wicked grin. He realized he could never beat Ethan with cards. He could never beat Ethan with intelligence. The madness took complete control of his brain, and his right hand dropped heavily beneath the edge of the wooden table.

*Click.*

The loud, sharp sound of a heavy metal weapon cocking broke the silence of the room.

Marcus pulls a hidden pistol under the table, pointing it at Ethan's chest: "You don't leave here alive, driver."