Chapter 78: Hitting the Devs Where It Hurts

The dealer raked in the chips while Laura’s father stared at the table, face ashen.

He’d hit rock bottom — and the night wasn’t over yet.

Across the table, the bald ringleader lounged back, voice oily. “Buddy, luck’s not your friend today. How about you sit this one out? We’ve got folks waiting.”

But the man was past reason, pupils blown wide with rage and panic. “No. I’m winning it back today. I lost my daughter’s dowry—if I go home like this, my wife will skin me alive. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll grab more cash.”

The bald man traded a look with his crew, then sighed theatrically. “Half an hour. If you’re not back, we don’t hold the seat.”

The moment Laura’s father disappeared, a younger goon leaned in. “Boss, how deep you want him in?”

The bald man cut him a glare. “You’ll know when you see my eyes. And keep your mouth shut. This doesn’t leave the room.”

Thirty minutes later, Laura’s father returned with a frayed backpack and false bravado.

“Where’d all that come from?” the bald man asked, smiling like a shark.

“Loan I gave out ages ago,” he muttered, cheeks hot. He dumped the cash onto the felt. “I’m winning it back. Tonight.”

They buttered him up, let him taste one staged win, and hooked him clean. The next hand he lost. Then the next, and the next—each bigger, each bloodier. Sweat pooled at his hairline.

“What happened to that hot streak?” the bald man clucked. “Blink and it’s gone, huh?”

“Hell with that,” Laura’s father snarled. “All in.”

The bald man tossed his card. His men slid theirs like choreography. Another loss. The house raked it all in.

“Alright, pal,” the bald man said, bored now. “Time to let someone else play.”

The room jeered—move it, old man, make space—and something in him snapped. He slapped a document onto the table: a property deed, the title for a brand-new apartment.

“I’m not done,” he panted. Red veined his eyes. “Let’s go.”

The bald man allowed himself one quick glance. Jackpot.

“Property isn’t a casual chip,” he drawled. “If you’re staking that, you put it in writing.” He flicked a look at one of his boys, who magically produced a “declaration” already typed up.

Laura’s father didn’t notice that detail. He pressed his thumbprint so hard the paper nearly tore.

That hand vanished faster than the rest.

He lunged for the deed; the bald man got there first. “Save it. You lost the apartment. House rules.”

With a crack like a broken branch, Laura’s father dropped to his knees. “Please. I’ll pay you back. That’s my daughter’s home. I can’t lose it.”

“Oh?” the bald man said, amiable as a hanging judge. “For your daughter, is it?” He nodded to the document. “Read the clause you stamped. If you renege on the property, you make up the difference with your… daughter.”

The room went silent. Laura’s father stared at the line, the words swimming into meaning, and went chalk-white.

“Boss, no,” he rasped. “She’s a kid. She can’t—she won’t—”

“Then don’t make me wait.” The bald man scratched his scalp, patience thinning. “My generosity has limits.”

The goon shifted to leave. Laura’s father grabbed him in terror. “I’ll sell! I’ll sell the apartment!”

“Good man.” The bald man grinned, pocketed the deed, and swept out with his crew, whistling.

Laura’s father crumpled onto the empty chair, breath sawing. Done. He’d blown through Julian’s hush money, his own savings, and now—Laura’s apartment. He had nothing left.

—

By midafternoon, Cora and Zoy were back from the grocery store, arms full of vegetables and a new set of baking pans Cora insisted they “absolutely needed.” Austin popped the trunk and carried the bags inside.

They didn’t make it through the door before shouting spilled down the hallway. Neighbors had swarmed the landing, whispering, pointing.

“What happened?” Zoy asked, frowning.

Cora slowed, curious despite herself.

Austin’s expression didn’t change. He knew exactly what had happened. He just said, “I’ll take a look. Mrs. Watson, best if you and your mother go inside. It’s crowded, and I don’t want anyone bumping you.”

Zoy touched Cora’s arm. “He’s right. It’s the Devs’ business, not ours anymore.”

Cora nodded, and they slipped into their place. Austin headed for the noise.

On the landing outside Gary’s apartment, the bald man was already waving a document. He clocked Austin, straightened a fraction—then caught the almost imperceptible shake of Austin’s head and kept his distance.

“This is the deed,” the bald man announced for the crowd, voice amplified for maximum humiliation. “Title’s in my hands now. I’m the owner. Simple as.”

Gary, red-faced and rumpled, grabbed for the paper. The bald man snatched it back, smooth as silk, and turned to the neighbors. “We’re not bullies. We have a stamped contract. This unit was never Gary’s to begin with—it was his brother’s. The brother owed me. He staked the apartment. He lost. I’m here to take what’s mine.”

A low hum of gossip rolled around the hall.

Gary’s new wife—pregnant and ballistic—rounded on him. “You said it was yours! You lied to me!” Her nails flashed; three slashes opened across his cheek.

Gary hunched, arms up, too scared to shove her off in case he “hurt the baby.” He sputtered excuses; no one cared.

Inside, Cora and Zoy shut the door on the chaos. A few minutes later, Austin came back, perfectly composed.

“How bad?” Cora asked for her mother.