Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Cracking safes is both simple and complicated. The easiest, most fool-proof way is to drill through the locking mechanism and essentially rip it open from the inside. But that makes a ton of noise and involves a whole bunch of big tools. I don’t have the luxury of drilling.
Instead, I have to go with the other method. Which usually involves getting access to the electronics that work the internals. That’s easier on some models than others, but fortunately for me, whoever bought this safe didn’t go for the top of the line. I’m somewhat suspicious about what I’m going to find inside already. If this safe was owned by the father, why isn’t it the best he could buy? Why rely on a mid-tier model when he can clearly afford something much nicer?
And why is it hidden in this room of all places?
After some digging, I find the reset contacts and short them out with a small piece of metal until the whole mechanism overrides. That forces the system to restart back to factory settings. Then it’s as simple as entering the default code, and I’m rewarded with the most glorious sound in a thief’s life.
The thud of a bolt throwing open.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I say, heart fluttering with excitement. There are very few things in life better than cracking into somewhere I don’t belong. It’s the rush of winning mixed with the fear of danger and getting caught. I’ve always loved this ever since I first learned how to pick locks back when I was a little kid. My father thought it was funny when I wanted a training manual, picks, and a test lock for my birthday, but it was like giving an addict his first taste of pure heroin. I was done the second I got those tumblers into position and I’ve never looked back.
It hasn’t faded, not after all these years. Not after failures, struggles, fights, near-death experiences, and more pain and trauma than any one man should go through.
No, I still fucking love stealing.
The safe door swings open. Inside is a gun, stacks of rolled bills, several diamond-studded chain necklaces, and a bundle of what looks like various documents. I ignore the cash and jewelry and grab the paperwork, sitting back against the wall to flip through the first few pages.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m looking at. It’s a list of names, many of which are familiar, or at least the surnames are. Each name has a number attached, some scratched out several times with new sums written over them. It’s clearly a ledger of some kind, and I don’t know what sort until I reach the end of the list.
The last few pages are notes. They’re handwritten in meticulous script, mostly describing various payments, offered services, favors owed and borrowed, and more than a few weaknesses.
But it quickly becomes clear, this is some kind of poker game.
Cards are mentioned a lot. Gambling, stakes, all of that is woven throughout. With a sinking ugliness, I begin to understand what I’m looking at here.
It’s a high-stakes game. According to the notes, I suspect it’s played once-weekly at some undisclosed location, or maybe the spot rotates, I can’t be sure.
But it’s definitely not sanctioned.
The money involved is bad. Like really fucking bad. I’m looking at sums in the tens of thousands for some of the names, and overall it’s got to be in the millions.
A poker game for high rollers with obscene amounts of credit and cash rolling through it…
All happening on Sarkissian territory. Without Sarkissian blessing.
My mouth goes dry and my stomach feels sick. I sift through the safe one more time and find an ugly, gaudy chain with a name emblazoned in the front glittering with emeralds and rubies.
SAMVEL.
It takes a lot of effort not to groan. Of course it’s the fucking younger brother. That kid’s clearly a hustler of some kind, and apparently, he’s decent at it too, if he caught me that first night. This though, this is way over his head, and I bet the kid doesn’t even realize it.
One thing to run a game without getting Sarkissian blessing, especially on their territory, using their places and their people, but another to involve the children of important families. Because now I can tell what I’m looking at and it makes me want to shove this notebook back into the damn safe, lock it up, and pretend like I was never here.
No wonder Arsen wants it.
This is proof that Haik’s own son has been breaking some serious rules for what looks like a while now.
“Hello? Sam, you in here again? I told you, it’s too late for this crap.”
I flinch back and freeze. The voice is achingly familiar. Footsteps come closer, shuffling. I tuck the notebook under my arm, forced to react as Davit comes into view, rubbing his eyes and frowning at me sleepily.