The gaming house of Duke Lorenzo de Carvalho was the embodiment of excess, luxury, and utter disregard for modesty. Its facade, adorned with light marble and golden decorative inlays, silently announced to all: this was a place where the rich, the powerful, and the shamelessly extravagant gathered. Inside, everything only reinforced this impression. The walls were lined with deep burgundy velvet, embellished with gold; the floor made of gleaming black stone reflected everything around it. The light from dozens of crystal chandeliers spilled softly across the hall, shimmering against the hundreds of gaming tables scattered across the space.

  Roulette, cards, magical dice — all combined into a strange symphonic rhythm of excitement, where every sound — the clink of coins, cries of triumph, and sighs of defeat — became part of a deliberately chaotic backdrop. The guests, dressed in elegant attire ranging from light satin suits to dark emerald gowns with long trains, completed the atmosphere of festivity and simultaneously dangerous play. On their faces — masks. Delicate, silver, laced, sometimes eerily elongated or painted with symbols and colors. In this hall, no one was themselves — only a role, a part of the performance, where the stakes were always high.

  At the very center of the main hall stood a massive staircase leading to the second floor. It was so wide that up to five people could walk side by side on each step. The polished wood, silver-inlaid railings, and the dark purple velvet carpet covering every stair spoke of the grandeur Lorenzo wished to impress upon anyone who ever set foot inside. The staircase seemed intentionally placed in the heart of this indulgent chaos — like a stage from which the leading man could descend to greet his audience.

  Alex, dressed in a refined outfit — black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a black jacket casually unbuttoned at the chest — stood near the entrance of the main hall, silently surveying the luxurious setting. His face, half-hidden by an elegant silver mask, remained calm, though a faint glimmer of ironic amusement flickered in his eyes.

  “And I thought the Montameris were the kings of throwing money around...” he mused. “Well, looks like they've been officially dethroned by the world's top spendthrift. Although... I must admit — Lorenzo has far better taste than Remil.”

  "Amazing what lengths some aristocrats will go to just to feed their egos," came the calm, familiar voice of the Siren in his mind.

  A slight smile tugged at Alex's lips.

  "Usually, wealth is the only thing such aristocrats have to show off," he replied silently. "This is already my second life, and I’m still baffled by their eccentricities..."

  He exhaled deeply, his gaze shifting to the side.

  "Though what surprises me even more is that I actually agreed to bring him here tonight..."

  Not far off stood Rogan — in dark brown trousers, a white shirt, and a deep red bow tie. His mask covered the upper part of his face, but not even that could hide his slightly shocked expression. His jaw was slightly slack, eyes wide: it was clear he had never seen anything this extravagant before.

  "First time seeing something like this?" Elizabeth asked with a smile, lightly patting the young man on the shoulder.

  Rogan flinched and turned his head toward her.

  "Y-yeah..." he mumbled uncertainly, lowering his gaze.

  Elizabeth, wearing a stunning red gown with a deep neckline and a graceful mask, took his hand. His face instantly flushed — had it not been for the mask, the blush would've been hard to miss.

  "Then come, let's take a stroll. I'll give you a tour of this temple of indulgence," she winked and led Rogan forward, skillfully weaving through the crowd.

  Before disappearing into the throng, she glanced back at Alex.

  "Care to join us?"

  Alex gave a slight nod.

  "Thanks for the invite, but I already have plans."

  "Suit yourself," Elizabeth replied with a smile and vanished into the crowd with the bewildered Rogan.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "And what exactly do you have in mind?" asked the Siren's voice with a hint of curiosity.

  Alex grinned broadly, shifting his gaze toward the gaming tables.

  "I've got an idea..."

  Alex sat at one of the central tables of the luxurious gaming hall. Around him were five other players — two men in their thirties, dressed in elegant suits and refined masks, and three women — all stunningly beautiful, each around forty, wearing expensive dresses with plunging necklines and adorned with jeweled accessories. Their masks were delicate, yet did not hide the sparks of excitement in their eyes. Each of them not only knew the rules of the game, but seemed to turn every gesture, every smile into a performance. Behind the table stood a female dealer in her mid-twenties, in a more modest burgundy dress and a simple mask. Her movements were confident and poised.

  “Never thought I'd end up playing in a place like this,” Alex thought.

  "Do you really think this is the time for games?" the familiar voice of the Siren rang in his mind.

  "If I just wandered the halls looking suspicious, the guards would've already noticed me," Alex answered silently, without altering his expression. "Best way to blend in is to do what everyone else is doing — and keep an eye on things in the meantime. Though… I will need your help."

  The Siren sighed.

  "Understood. Good luck at the table."

  Her voice faded, and Alex shifted his attention to his cards. His face remained stone-cold — no emotion, no nervous ticks.

  "Ha! Got dealt a weak hand, boy?" came the smug voice of one of the men to his left.

  Alex didn’t even raise an eyebrow. His eyes calmly studied the cards. The pause stretched out, and eventually, the man pursed his lips and clicked his tongue — clearly annoyed by Alex's silence.

  "Please, don’t be harsh on the young player," said one of the women sitting across from Alex, her voice smooth and theatrical, as if addressing an audience. "I’m sure he’ll surprise us all."

  "Highly doubtful," the man muttered, glaring at his cards.

  Alex glanced at him sideways. “Well, that one’s easy to read…” he thought. “No matter how hard you try, your emotions betray you. You’re probably holding a hand just below average… but it’s too soon to tell.”

  "Please place your initial bets," the dealer said calmly.

  The man to Alex’s left impatiently placed five gold coins on the table. One by one, the other players — including Alex — matched the bet. The game began.

  "Bets are in," announced the dealer. She set aside the top card of the deck — the burn card, as per the rules — and dealt the next three face-up on the table: the flop — three of spades, eight of clubs, queen of hearts.

  Alex looked at the cards, then back at his own hand.

  “Bad… but not hopeless. Two rounds to go. For now, the goal is to figure out who’s holding what.”

  His gaze fell again on the smug player to his left. Though the man was trying to maintain a calm demeanor, his involuntary reactions gave him away — the corners of his lips twitched upward, and his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Satisfied? Then you’ve got at least a pair”.

  The women, on the other hand, showed no emotion. They sipped wine, toyed playfully with their jewelry, and wore the cold-blooded masks of predators. Alex leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the edge of the table. The last man, seated a little to Alex's right, also maintained a calm expression.

  “Relaxed. No clear emotion. Either they’re bluffing, or they’re holding strong hands... In this world, I’m not the strongest—yet. But in poker... he smiled inwardly, ...I’ve played against the best. And learned from those considered even better. I won’t lose here.”

  "Please place your next bets," the dealer girl said calmly, delicately brushing her hand over the edge of the table.

  The woman in the emerald dress was the first to move—slowly, almost theatrically. Her smile was gentle, her eyes sparkling with excitement behind her mask.

  "Time to make things more interesting," she purred, placing forty gold coins in front of her.

  "Tch," clicked the irritated man to Alex’s left with disdain. He clearly didn’t like that move.

  The woman in the sun-yellow dress followed suit, calmly raising the bet in a show of partnerly solidarity. Her movements were precise, her gaze focused, though her smile never left her lips.

  "I’ll call," she said softly.

  The man in the red shirt took a sip of wine from his glass, set it down, and, with almost no change in tone, simply said:

  "Call."

  His eyes remained empty, indifferent, as if he were playing more out of courtesy than any real desire to win.

  The last in line was the woman in elegant black. She slowly took out a refined cigarette holder—a long, graceful piece of black ebony with a silver tip. With effortless grace, she inserted a cigarette, raised two fingers, and conjured a red magical ring. A small pillar of fire rose from her fingertips, lighting the cigarette. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, the white stream of smoke dissolving into the air.

  Then, turning her gaze to Alex, she offered him another cigarette with a faintly mocking tone.

  "Want one?"

  Alex raised one hand in polite refusal.

  "Thanks, but I’ll pass."

  "As you wish," the woman sighed barely audibly, and without breaking eye contact, placed her forty gold as well.

  Only Alex remained. He was silent for a few seconds, as if weighing his options. Then a thought passed through his mind: Well, not like I have much of a choice… and he emotionlessly slid forty gold coins forward with a flick of his fingers.

  "Call," he said curtly.

  "Bets are placed," came the even voice of the dealer.

  She burned another card and, slowly, without haste, flipped the next—fourth—community card. The queen of clubs.