The cards hit the table with a soft slap. Cheap deck. Worn edges. The kind of cards that stick together if you breathe on them wrong. Donald shuffles like he's done it a thousand times, which he has. His hands are steady now. Too steady.
He's almost sober.
Great.
The goons stand behind him, arms crossed, eyes on me. I sit still, hands on the table, breathing slow. My ribs ache every time I inhale. My head throbs. My wrists burn. But I keep my face calm.
Donald deals two cards to each of us. He doesn't blink.
I don't look at mine yet. I watch him instead. Old habit. The first tell always comes before the first card.
He leans back in his chair. Not relaxed. Testing me. Seeing if I'll flinch. I don't.
I flip my cards. Seven and Nine. Off-suit. Trash hand. Doesn't matter. I'm not here to win. I'm here to stay alive long enough to figure out the next move.
Donald taps the table. "Your bet."
I slide a single chip forward. Small. Safe. Enough to say I'm playing, not enough to say I'm confident.
He watches my hand. Not the chips. My hand. He's looking for tremors. Fear. Anything.
I keep it steady.
He matches the bet without looking at his cards again. He already knows what he's doing. He's not playing the hand. He's playing me.
The dealer in my head whispers the same thing it always did when I was losing:
You're outmatched.
I ignore it.
Donald flips the flop. Queen. Four. Ten.
Nothing for me. Not even a draw.
He studies the cards, then studies me. His eyes narrow just a little. He's trying to see if I see something he doesn't.
I give him nothing.
He bets small. Testing the water.
I call. Not because I should. Because folding now would tell him everything he wants to know. That I'm scared. That I'm cornered. That he's in control.
He can't know that. Not yet.
The turn comes. Another Queen.
Donald's lips twitch. Barely. A micro-smile. He likes that card. Or he wants me to think he does.
I've done that smile before. I know exactly what it feels like. The little spark in your chest when the table shifts your way. The rush of thinking you're about to crush someone.
I used to chase that feeling. It ruined me.
Donald bets bigger this time. Not huge. Just enough to push.
I match it. My pulse jumps. My palms sweat. I keep my breathing even.
He watches me like a hawk. He's looking for the crack. The moment I fold inside before I fold outside.
The river hits the table.
A Five.
Nothing changes. Nothing helps me. Nothing hurts him.
He taps his fingers on the felt. Slow. Rhythmic. Thinking. Calculating. The last of the alcohol is gone now. His eyes are sharp. Cold. Focused.
He pushes a stack forward. Bigger than before. Not all-in. Not a kill shot. A squeeze.
He wants me to fold. He wants the satisfaction. He wants to see me break.
I look at my cards. Seven and Nine. Worthless. Dead on arrival.
I look at him. The way he sits. The way he breathes. The way his jaw tightens just a hair too much.
He's bluffing.
I don't know how I know. I just do. The same way I used to know when a hand was slipping away from me. The same way I used to feel the panic rising in my throat. The same way I used to watch someone else rake in the chips and feel myself shrink.
He's wearing that same tension now. The same fear of being seen through.
I push my chips forward.
"I call."
The room goes silent.
Donald's eyes flicker. Just once. A tiny crack.
He flips his cards.
King and Two.
Nothing.
He had nothing.
He stares at the table like it betrayed him. His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for the gun again.
I don't smile. I don't gloat. I don't breathe.
I just sit there.
Waiting.
The goons shift behind him. They don't know what to do. Donald doesn't either. He's caught between pride and rage and confusion.
He finally speaks.
"One more."
His voice is low. Tight. Dangerous.
I nod.
Because I don't have a choice.
And because if I stop moving, stop thinking, stop playing, even for a second, I'm going to fall apart.
Not yet.