Ariana Ross
The text message comes from an unknown number. Just a time and a room number. The observatory. It is the highest point on campus and has been closed for renovations for a decade.
Leo is waiting for me inside. Dust motes dance in the single beam of moonlight cutting through the grimy dome overhead. He does not waste time with greetings.
“Your test,” he says. His voice is flat, devoid of emotion. He slides a thick envelope across a dust covered table. “This is your buy in. Five thousand dollars. Do not lose it.”
I pick it up. It feels heavy with expectation. “What am I buying into?”
“A poker game,” he says, his eyes scanning me, unimpressed. “There is a club downtown. The Serpent’s Coil. A faculty member, Professor Albright, has a membership. He is hosting a guest tonight. A man named Nikolai Petrov.”
He pauses, watching for my reaction. I give him none.
“Petrov is a business associate of a rival family. He is in town to finalize a deal. We need to know what that deal is.”
“And you want me to ask him?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. It is not a friendly expression. “No. We want you to play cards with him. Albright’s games are high stakes. Petrov is arrogant. He likes to talk when he wins. He gets angry when he loses. People like that are sloppy.”
“What’s the keyword?” I ask.
Leo’s eyes narrow slightly. “What?”
“There is always a keyword. A company name. A project. Something specific you need to know about. Otherwise, the information is useless.” Rick’s voice echoes in my head. Be specific. Know the target.
Leo is silent for a moment. He seems to be reevaluating me. “Sterling Imports.”
“Sterling Imports,” I repeat. “What do I do when I have the information?”
“A car will be waiting for you outside at two a.m. It will bring you back here. Tell the driver what you learned. He will relay the message.” He turns to leave. “And Ross.”
I look at him.
“Do not talk to anyone else. Do not make friends. Just get the information. If you fail, the ride will not take you back to campus. Understood?”
“Perfectly.”
He leaves without another word, a shadow disappearing into the darkness.
The Serpent’s Coil is not a place you find by accident. It is in a basement, behind an unmarked steel door in a quiet alley. The air inside is thick with the smell of expensive whiskey and quiet desperation. The room is dimly lit, the only real pools of light are over the green felt tables.
I find Professor Albright’s table easily. He looks different here than in the lecture hall, his tweed jacket replaced with a silk shirt, his face flushed with excitement. And sitting across from him is a man with a heavy gold watch and eyes like chips of ice. Nikolai Petrov.
I approach the table. “Is there an open seat?”
Albright looks up, surprised to see a student here. Before he can speak, Petrov laughs, a low, dismissive sound.
“Look what we have here. A little bird, lost from her nest.” He gestures to the empty chair. “Come, little bird. We do not bite. Much.”
I sit down. I slide the envelope to the dealer. “Five thousand, please.”
The men at the table exchange looks. Petrov’s smile widens. He thinks I am a rich girl, here for a thrill. Good. Underestimation is a weapon.
For the first hour, I play quietly. I fold more than I play. I lose a little, win a little. I am not watching the cards. I am watching the players. Especially Petrov.
He is a classic bully. He bluffs with aggression, raising big to scare off weaker hands. When he has a strong hand, he becomes condescending, trying to coax more money into the pot with taunts.
But that is not his tell. That is just his personality. Rick taught me to look deeper.
I watch his hands. He has a habit of tapping his index finger on his cards when he is thinking. One tap for a bluff. Two taps when he has a monster hand. It is tiny. Almost imperceptible. But it is there. A little rhythm of deceit.
Everyone has a tell.
I wait for my moment. It comes when the dealer puts out a flop with two kings. I have the third king in my hand. Petrov gets a smug look on his face. He caught a king, I am sure of it. He starts his routine, talking down to the man next to me.
“Are you sure you want to stay in, old man? This is a rich pot.”
The man folds. It comes to me. I look at Petrov. He is staring at me, a wolfish grin on his face. He slides a large stack of chips into the middle.
I watch his finger. Tap. Tap. He has a king. He is strong.
“I’ll call,” I say quietly.
The last card is dealt. It is useless. Petrov immediately shoves all his chips into the middle. “All in, little bird. Time to fly away home.”
He thinks his pair of kings is the best hand. He is trying to bully me out. He thinks I am weak.
I look at my chips, then at him. “You know, this reminds me of a business deal I was reading about. A company called Sterling Imports. It seemed like such a sure thing, but then the deal fell through at the last minute.”
His smile tightens. Just for a second. His right eye twitches.
There it is. The real tell. Not the finger tapping. That is a performance. The twitch is real. The twitch is an involuntary reaction to stress. The mention of Sterling Imports is a source of stress.
“That is foolish gossip,” he says, his voice a little too sharp. “Only an idiot would pass on Sterling.”
“An idiot or someone who knows something others do not,” I say, pushing my chips into the middle. “I call.”
My voice does not shake. My hands are steady.
He looks shocked. Then angry. “Show your cards, girl.”
I turn over my three kings. The table goes silent. Petrov slams his hand down, showing his two kings. His face is a mask of thunder. I just took nearly twenty thousand dollars from him.
“Beginner’s luck,” he snarls, signaling the waitress for another drink.
I just nod, stacking my new chips. “Maybe.”
I spend the next hour slowly bleeding him. I know when he is bluffing because his eye is still. He only twitches when he has a real hand and is trying to trap someone. The finger tapping was a conscious misdirection. The twitch is his soul telling secrets.
As I take another pot from him, he glares at me. “You play like a shark.”
“I just get lucky,” I say. “Speaking of luck, the people taking over Sterling Imports will need a lot of it. Cleaning house is always a messy business.”
His anger boils over. “It is not messy, it is necessary!” he snaps. “Once we liquidate their shipping division and sell the routes, the company will be worth double. It is a simple corporate raid. Not that a child like you would understand.”
He stops himself, realizing he has said too much. The other players are trying not to stare.
There it is. Liquidate the shipping division. Sell the routes. That is the plan. That is the information Carter needs.
I play for another twenty minutes, losing some of my winnings back to the other players to avoid suspicion. Then I stand up.
“Thank you for the game, gentlemen,” I say. I cash out. My original five thousand, plus ten thousand more.
Petrov watches me go, his eyes full of hate. He does not see a little bird anymore. He sees the person who read him like a book and took him apart.
I walk out into the cool night air. The black car is there, just as Leo promised. The driver opens the back door for me without a word. I get in.
“Where to?” he asks, his voice a low growl.
“Back to the observatory.”
He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. The silence is heavy.
“Did you get it?” he asks after a few blocks.
I realize it is not a driver. It is Leo.
“Yes,” I say. I do not look at him. I look out the window at the passing city lights.
“Petrov’s group plans to acquire Sterling Imports under the guise of a partnership. Then they will liquidate the entire shipping division and sell off the routes individually. It is a hostile takeover. A corporate raid.”
I place the envelope with my winnings on the seat between us. “That is the buy in. And a little extra.”
Leo glances at the envelope, then at me in the rearview mirror. The car is quiet for a long time. I can feel his stare, his reassessment.
He drives through the academy gates and up the winding road to the observatory. He pulls the car to a stop in the shadows of the old building.
I open the door to get out.
“Ross,” he says.
I pause, one foot on the gravel drive.
“Carter was not wrong about you.”
It is not praise. Not really. It is a statement of fact. An admission. It is the flicker of respect I needed to earn.
I get out of the car and close the door gently.
He drives away, leaving me alone in the moonlight.
I walk back toward my dorm, the cold night air on my face. For the first time since arriving at Blackwood, I am not just surviving.
I am playing the game.
