Chapter 3: Monaco
The note said Monaco. July. I should have stayed away.
The knock at the door came early.
Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just, expected.
When I opened it, the man standing there was young.
Mid-twenties. Navy suit, crisp white shirt, no tie.
He said nothing.
Just offered me a slim black envelope and bowed slightly before vanishing back down the hall.
Inside was a card. Just one line, centred:
“Monaco. July 5th.”
I thought about Geneva.
About the door Elise had offered to open.
About whether I should call her.
Warn her. Ask for, something. But I didn’t.
Something about the note she had left me felt bigger than a phone call.
It felt final.
July 5th came.
Another knock.
Earlier this time.
The city still dark.
The air still holding its breath.
A different man stood there.
He spoke in a clipped, precise accent.
“Sir. The car is ready.”
No introduction.
No explanation.
I followed him down to a waiting black Mercedes.
Tints so dark they swallowed the street around them.
The drive was silent.
Long enough for me to wonder if this was the right decision.
The car pulled into a private terminal.
No security lines.
Just a Gulfstream G650 idling under soft lights, steps already lowered, engines murmuring.
I boarded alone, with only a stewardess who offered a drink I didn’t touch and then vanished behind a curtain.
The plane lifted off like an exhale.
No destination announced.
But I knew.
Monaco.
Two hours and twelve minutes later, I had arrive
Awaiting me was a black Rolls-Royce on the tarmac and another silent driver.
We wound down cliffs and tight stone alleys, past yachts bigger than dreams and glass towers clinging to the hillsides.
Finally, the Hôtel Hermitage Monte-Carlo.
A fortress for the wealthy who understood that real power moves in silence.
The Rolls-Royce eased to a stop.
Before the driver even opened my door, the bellboy was already there.
He moved like he knew me.
Or at least who I was supposed to be.
He smiled as he took my name:
“Welcome back, sir. It’s good to see you! Your suite is ready.”
I didn’t correct him.
Maybe I couldn’t anymore.
The suite wasn’t a room.
It was a world.
Walls of glass spilling light across marble floors.
A dining table set for six who would never come.
A bottle of champagne already breathing on ice.
On the bed, at perfect centre, a slim black briefcase.
Next to it a card.
I opened the briefcase first.
Bundles of fresh euros, stacked so neatly they looked fragile.
Waiting.
Like a loaded gun you hadn’t realised you were meant to pick up.
I closed it gently and turned to the card:
“Salon Bellevue. 8pm. High Stakes Invitational.”
No sender.
I was expected.
I showered.
Dressed carefully.
And then I hesitated.
The watch sat on the desk, the Richard Mille, still featherlight, still whispering of the night in London where all of this began.
For a second, I thought about leaving it behind.
Walking into whatever waited without a crown I hadn’t earned.
But that wasn’t what they wanted.
It wasn’t what had gotten me here.
So I strapped it on, the forged carbon cold against my skin, and walked out the door without looking back.
The Salon Bellevue wasn’t buzzing.
It was breathing.
Low, slow, careful.
Soft shoes against carpet.
Glasses clinking faintly.
Laughter that didn’t need to be loud to cut.
I slid into the last empty seat at the table without fanfare.
No introductions.
No welcome.
Just a place waiting for me.
The poker was sharp and cautious.
No grandstanding.
No theatrical bluffs.
The chips were real enough but the currency wasn’t cash.
It was control.
Who folded gracefully.
Who pressed quietly.
Who watched without blinking.
I folded often.
Raised rarely.
And slowly, steadily,
I won.
Not with noise.
Not with swagger.
But with the grace Elise had warned me not to lose.
At some point during the game—an hour, maybe three—I felt it.
A weight, heavy and invisible.
I looked up once across the room and there he was.
The Frenchman.
Leaning against a far wall, glass in hand, half a smile that never touched his eyes.
He wasn’t watching the cards.
Or the chips.
He was watching me.
Like a hunter studying an animal it had already decided belonged to him.
I blinked.
And he was gone.
The next morning, just as the sky began to bruise into daylight,
another knock.
“Mr Rivière would like to see you.”
A pause.
“He’s waiting aboard his yacht.”
I didn’t ask questions.
I didn’t need to.
By then, I knew.
I hadn’t come to Monaco for the cards.
I hadn’t come for the money.
I hadn’t even come for the watch.
I was the currency.
I was the prize.
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