Chapter 3: "Marked Cards" - Julian POV

The night’s still buzzing in my head, Claire’s venom, Victor’s growl, that bloody “take him down” line. I’m back at my table, dealing cards, but my hands feel off, like they’re not mine. The casino’s loud as ever, slots ringing, voices shouting, but it’s all fuzzy now. I keep glancing at the security door, half-expecting Claire to storm out with a knife or something mad. She doesn’t, though. Not yet.

It’s late, past three a.m., and I’m knackered. My legs ache from standing, and the smoke’s got my throat raw. I’m dealing to a rowdy bachelor party, blokes in cheap suits, already half-pissed, yelling about their stag do. “Hit me, mate!” one slurs, slamming chips down. I flip him a card, ten of spades, and he cheers like he’s won big. I force a grin, keeping the patter going, but my mind’s elsewhere. Five grand for that Brit. Ethan’s dying. What the hell’s that about?

I don’t see it coming. One minute, I’m dealing, ace of clubs, the next, the floor’s swarming. Security blokes, three of them, big lads with radios crackling, barrel straight for my table. The bachelor party goes quiet, all wide eyes and open mouths. I freeze, card still in hand, as the lead guy grabs my arm.

“Julian Harrow, you’re coming with us,” he says, voice flat. His grip’s tight, and I yank back on instinct.

“What’s this bloody bollocks?” I snap, louder than I mean to. The casino’s watching now, players, dealers, everyone. My heart’s pounding, and I look for Marcus. He’s by the pit, staring, his face a mess of shock and something else. Disbelief, maybe.

“Caught stealing chips,” the security guy says, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. “Ten grand’s worth.” He pulls me from the table, and my deck scatters, cards everywhere. The bachelor party scoots back, chairs scraping, like I’m contagious.

“That’s rubbish!” I shout, twisting in his grip. “I didn’t nick a thing!” But they’re not listening. They drag me off, one on each arm, my boots sliding on the polished floor. I’m yelling now, “This is a stitch-up!” but it’s no use. The crowd parts, gawking, and I feel their eyes like needles.

Marcus is still there, rooted to the spot. I catch his gaze, pleading without words. Say something, mate. Back me up. He doesn’t move, just stares, his jaw tight. One of the guards shoves me past, and I lose sight of him. My stomach drops. He’s not coming after me.

They haul me through the staff doors, down a hall that smells like bleach and stale coffee. My head’s spinning, ten grand, chips, I’ve never touched a penny that wasn’t mine. Five years here, clean as anything, and now this? Claire’s voice echoes in my skull, five grand for that Brit, and it clicks. This is her. Her and Victor. They’re doing this.

We stop at the security office, a cramped room with monitors flickering. They shove me in, and there’s Victor, leaning on the desk like he’s king of the bloody castle. His grizzly face is smug, eyes cold. Marcus is there too, standing by the wall, arms crossed. He looks smaller somehow, like the fight’s gone out of him.

“Show him,” Victor says, nodding at a monitor. The guard flips it on, and there I am, grainy footage, me at my table, pocketing chips. Clear as day. Except it’s not me. Not really. I know my own hands, my own moves, and that’s not how I stand. It’s fake, doctored, but it looks real enough to fool anyone.

“That’s not me!” I say, lunging forward. The guard pushes me back, hard, and I stumble. “You’ve rigged it, you bastard!”

Victor smirks, folding his arms. “Evidence says different, kid.” He turns to Marcus, voice smooth. “Ten grand, Reid. Your boy’s been busy.”

Marcus stares at the screen, then at me. His eyes are dark, searching, but there’s doubt in them, bloody doubt. “Julian wouldn’t…” he starts, quiet, then trails off. “Would he?”

My chest tightens, like someone’s punched me. “Marcus, you know me!” I say, voice cracking. “Five years, mate! I wouldn’t do this!” He doesn’t answer, just looks away, rubbing his neck. Victor’s watching, soaking it up, and I spot Claire by the door. She’s half-hidden, lurking, her smirk small but sharp. She’s loving this, me falling, Marcus breaking.

“Tip came in,” Victor says, casual. “Anonymous. Said to check your locker.” He holds up a bag, marked chips, red and black, ten grand’s worth. “Found these. All fits, Reid.”

Marcus flinches, staring at the bag, then the screen, then me. “I don’t…” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” I snap, anger boiling over. “You don’t bloody know?” He won’t meet my eyes, and that cuts deeper than the cuffs they slap on me. Cold metal bites my wrists, and I stop fighting. What’s the point?

They drag me out, Claire’s smirk burning into me as I pass. Marcus stays put, silent, and I want to scream at him, three weeks ago, you kissed me, you git! You said you loved me! But I don’t. I just let them pull me down the hall, away from him, away from everything.

They shove me into a holding room, grey walls, one chair, a table bolted down. The door slams, and I’m alone. Cuffed hands rest on my lap, and I stare at the wall, blank and cold. My head’s a mess, replaying it all, the footage, the chips, Marcus’s face. He didn’t fight for me. Didn’t even try.

I hear his voice again, faint as they led me off. “We’ll sort it, mate,” he’d said, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure. It echoes now, over and over, and I clench my fists. “We’ll sort it.” What a load of rubbish. He didn’t believe me. After everything, five years, the flat, the whiskey, the kiss, he didn’t believe me.

The cuffs dig in, and the room’s quiet, just my breathing and the hum of the vents. I mutter to myself, low and bitter. “He didn’t believe me.” It stings, sharp and deep, worse than the setup, worse than Claire’s smirk. I’m alone now, stuck here, and all I’ve got is that truth. Marcus didn’t believe me. And that’s what breaks me.