He was still a little dizzy from the liquor and the blows he had taken, even though he was dealing with professionals who avoided hitting the head. It was no lie that this had been his second visit that very day.
—It's not that I'm saying you're idiots; in fact, I've never been beaten by such respectable and kind gentlemen. I almost want to apolog—
Another blow. This time to the stomach.
The air rushed out of his lungs, but he didn't scream. He coughed up a bit of bloodied saliva, took a deep breath, and raised his head.
—Red Crown Casino? Or was it Silver Mirage? I've lost track.
The tall man crouched in front of him.
—You owe more than you can count. To casinos. To lenders. People like me don't like wasting time or money, Daniels.
—That sounds egocentric —Nicolas replied, looking at the man who was hitting him—. Do they pay you by the hour or by broken bone?
Jack didn't smile.
The blow was harder.
Blood ran down the corner of his mouth. Nicolas wiped it with his shoulder as best he could.
—Look —he said, breathing with difficulty—. I know this isn't ideal for either of us. You want money. I want to keep breathing. We can reach an agreement.
—That's the problem —Jack interrupted—. We don't see how.
—I do.
He lifted his gaze. If the men had to recognize anything about the poor devil before their eyes, it was that he seemed to have guts.
—How?
—There will be a race at the Livington Derby next month, and the prize will be more than two million dollars. I'll bet anything I can win, and I promise you can keep all the money.
I… I'm good at this. I'm… the best, and I've heard rumors that you want to handle bigger businesses, that—
The room fell silent for a second. The two men looked at each other, weighing Nicolas's words, as if they expected him to reveal something more.
—A race? Is that all you've got? —Jack said mockingly.
Nicolas nodded. The laugh was almost hysterical, but his face showed no doubt about his words; his conviction was almost hypnotic.
—Yes, a race. And if you don't believe me— his voice grew lower, but firm— I can prove it. This is my last shot. My last chance.
The two mobsters stared at him in silence, considering the offer. They could kill him right there, of course, but something in the glint of Nicolas's eyes stopped them. Perhaps for the same reason, some people bet on the losing horse or the risky play. There was something about him that told them that, crazy as it was, it wasn't a completely lost bet or that is what Nicolas thinks.
—Alright, Daniels —said the shorter man, letting out a cold laugh. If you win, your debt is settled. If you lose… well, you know what happens.
Nicolas said nothing more. Though he seemed unconcerned on the outside, his heart was beating wildly.
When the tall man untied his hands and helped him to his feet, that was when he finally allowed himself to feel excited, knowing he had one more chance. Lady Luck had not abandoned him entirely—or so he kept telling himself as he caressed the small gold coin kept in his back pocket.
It was all he had left. Or so he thought, until a gun was placed in front of his head and fired.
In those few seconds, Nicolas remembered some rumors he had heard about Jack. He was the kind of man who liked to watch his victims die with hope, who waited to see that spark return only to rip it from their eyes. Slowly, Nicolas lost consciousness, sinking into nothingness.
Nicolas had not lived a fair life.
No. In truth, he didn't deserve any ending other than this. And yet, inside him, something resisted. It wasn't enough.
He owed too much. Too many people. Not just money, but years, trust, and opportunities. He had hurt those closest to him when it still mattered.
He had disappointed his family until the very end. His brothers no longer wanted him around.
He couldn't leave like this. He couldn't disappear and leave them with nothing. Not even with the illusion of a late retribution.
So he prayed.
Not to a specific god, nor to a true faith. He prayed to anything that might listen. To any presence, memory, or myth that still carried a name.
And then, without knowing why, he remembered the woman from his childhood.
Her calm voice.
Her attentive eyes.
And he asked for help from the deepest desire of his soul. Thus, his story could have ended with a somewhat cliché ending for a great gambler like Nicola Hale.
But he was someone to whom fortune had promised help in his darkest moments.
———
Darkness enveloped him completely, without the long-awaited pain of death. Nicolas was not a religious man, but the fear of hell was taught to everyone.
There was no noise. No cold or evil laughter meant to punish his sinful soul.
There was only a warm, distant sensation, like floating without direction.
Then, something touched him.
Soft hands rested on his cheeks. They didn't shake or drag him; they simply seemed to hold him as time passed.
They were just there, steady, as if making sure he continued to exist.
He wanted to speak, but he had no mouth.
He wanted to open his eyes, but there was no light.
A voice—unrecognizable, without features to name—cut through the darkness.
He didn't understand its words.
But the intention was conveyed: sorrow and a final opportunity. He would be given one last chip, and it would depend on him how he chose to play it.
And then—
The world came back all at once.
The smell of fuel hit him first. Then the noise. Small, high-pitched engines vibrating through the air. The ground beneath his feet was solid, rough.
Nicolas opened his eyes and saw not nothingness, but a landscape he knew very well.
He was alive again.
He blinked several times, breathing with difficulty, as if he had just surfaced from water. He looked down. His hands were not tied. There was no blood on his head or pain from a bullet at his temple.
—What…?
He brought his hands to his chest. His heart was beating hard, fast—too alive and frightened, but above all, excited.
I'm alive.
The thought pierced him with a mix of relief and panic.
Too alive.
—Nico.
A hand squeezed his.
He turned and saw the most beautiful and kind woman he had ever known, one to whom he owed more than his life. His mother.
Younger, without gray hair, with a worried gaze rather than a disappointed one. Without the exhaustion, he remembered all too well. Her expression was tense and focused, but affectionate—far too affectionate compared to his last memories of her.
—Listen to me —she said—. Focus, okay? It's almost your turn.
Nicolas felt the air leave his lungs.
No. This can't be.
He looked around, trying to find some clue to what was happening and to the miracle before his eyes.
The karts lined up.
Children wearing helmets that are almost too big for them, and a long row of parents and relatives cheering excitedly for their kids.
A memory struck him violently. He wasn't dead—he was in the past, more than eleven years back.
For a brief, absurd moment, he thought he had died and that this was heaven. But there was no divine light or peace. Only the roar of engines and the shouts of the crowd.
This is not heaven.
—Nico, come on —his mother insisted, squeezing his hand—. It's your race.
It was true. It was his race.
His body moved before his mind could catch up. He walked toward the kart out of pure habit. Hands smaller than he was used to adjusted the helmet. Thin legs climbed into the seat and settled into a kart that would soon become too small for him.
Everything fit. Everything was familiar, with some of his lucky charms on it, and the most important one he could still feel around his neck.
A small golden coin his mother had given him when she was nervous about seeing him compete in his first race. She said it belonged to his father and that it would protect him from any misfortune.
He sat in the kart.
He took a deep breath.
He tried to organize the chaos in his mind and followed his routines, as he had done when he was a child.
I'm here, and I'm alive. I've gone back to the past—or I'm having the most lucid dream before passing to another plane. Either way, it was something he would enjoy while it lasted.
I'm… fourteen?
There was no time to remember much more.
—Drivers ready!
The engines began to roar one after another.
Nicolas lowered the visor and checked that his belt was tight.
I've done this a thousand times—and if I could, I would have done it a thousand more.