Donald doesn't sit this time. He stands at the head of the table, hands planted on the felt, shoulders tight. The goons hover behind him, unsure if they should be watching me or him. The air feels charged, like the room is waiting for something to snap.
He shuffles the deck once, then stops. He looks at me, not the cards.
"You think you're clever," he says.
I don't answer. My ribs hurt too much to waste breath.
He tosses the deck onto the table. It skids to a stop in front of me.
"You deal."
The goons look at each other. They weren't expecting that. Neither was I. But the second the deck hits my side of the table, something shifts in my chest.
He's giving me control.
He doesn't know it, but he is.
I sit up straighter. My hands still ache, but they're steady. I pick up the deck. It feels lighter than it should. Familiar. Like an old habit sliding back into place.
I shuffle. Clean. Smooth. No flash. No flair. Just muscle memory.
Donald watches every movement.
I deal two cards to each of us.
He doesn't look at his. He looks at me.
"You better make this worth it," he says.
I flip my cards. Queen and Ten. Not perfect, not trash. Playable.
Donald taps the table. "Go on."
I flip the flop.
Nine. Jack. King.
A straight.
My pulse jumps, but I keep my face still. I don't breathe too hard. I don't blink too long. I don't let anything slip.
Donald studies the cards. Then he studies me. His eyes narrow. He's trying to see if I saw what he saw. He's trying to read me the way I've been reading him.
He can't.
He bets small. Testing.
I raise. Not huge. Just enough to say I'm not scared.
He watches my hand. My breathing. My posture. He's looking for the crack he swore he saw earlier.
It's not there.
He calls.
The turn comes. Another Jack.
He stiffens. Barely. But I catch it. He thinks it helps him. Or he wants me to think it does. Hard to tell. Doesn't matter.
He bets bigger this time. A push.
I raise again.
His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker. His fingers twitch. He's unraveling. Not from the cards. From me.
He doesn't understand how I'm still standing. How I'm still calm. How I'm still here.
The river hits the table.
A blank. A Two.
Doesn't change a thing.
Donald stares at the board. His breathing gets shallow. His shoulders rise. His fingers drum once on the felt, then stop. He's thinking too hard again. That's the tell. Always has been.
He pushes all his chips forward.
"All in."
The goons straighten. The room goes silent. The air feels heavy, like the whole building is holding its breath.
I look at my cards. Queen and Ten. A straight. Strong. Clean. Solid.
I look at him.
He's not confident.
He's desperate.
He needs this win. Needs it to make sense. Needs it to prove he's still the king of this room.
He's not.
I push my chips forward.
"I call."
No shake. No hesitation. No fear.
Donald's face cracks. Just a hairline fracture. But it's enough.
He flips his cards.
Ace and Jack.
Three of a kind.
Good hand.
Not good enough.
I flip mine.
Queen and Ten.
Straight.
The goons shift. Donald's eyes widen. His breath catches. His hands curl into fists. He looks at the table like it betrayed him. Like the universe tilted without warning.
He's not angry.
He's scared.
Not of me.
Of what I represent.
A man he can't control.
A man he can't predict.
A man he can't beat.
He steps back from the table. Slow. Unsteady. His confidence drains out of him like someone pulled a plug.
The goons look at him, waiting for orders.
He doesn't give any.
He just stares at the cards.
The climax hits the room like a silent explosion.
I won.
Not the war.
Not the night.
But the moment.
The summit.
The point where everything shifts.
The point where my success becomes inevitable.
Donald finally looks up at me.
His voice is quiet.
"This isn't over."
I nod once.
I know.
And the room feels different now.
Not tight.
Not suffocating.
Just waiting.