The air in Elizabeta's crib was thick with smoke—cigarettes, weed, the faint chemical tang of something stronger. Liz herself lounged on the couch, legs crossed, a smirk playing on her lips as she recounted her latest power move to Packie McReary.
"So I said if that's the way you want it, amigo, then that's what you gonna get." She flicked ash into a tray. "And that shut him up."
Packie, slouched beside her, snorted. "Fucking punk."
Behind them, arms crossed, Arthur Morgan stood like a shadow. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the room out of habit. He didn't trust this city, didn't trust half the people in it, but Elizabeta paid well, and Packie wasn't the worst company.
Then—a knock at the door.
Jorge, the muscle posted at the entrance, cracked it open. "Oh. Hey. ¿Cómo está?"
A woman stepped in—Mallorie Bardas, glasses perched on her nose, a knowing smile on her face. "Hey, how's it going?"
Behind her, a Slavic man in a leather jacket moved to follow, but Jorge blocked him with an arm. "Oh wait, espera—"
"He's with me," Mallorie said smoothly, turning to Liz. "Liz, this is Niko. Roman's cousin. I told him you could hook him up with work."
Niko's expression didn't change. "I know about protection. What do you need?"
Liz smirked. "I need someone nobody knows to oversee a deal I ain't sure about."
"Easy," Niko said.
"I think it'll be a bit more taxing than hanging with Manny on the streets," Liz shot back, mockingly.
That got a reaction. Packie barked a laugh, and even Arthur let out a low chuckle. Manny. That idiot wouldn't last five minutes in the real world.
Niko's lips twitched. "Not so. At least I won't have to hear Manny talk."
The whole room laughed—even Niko, just a little.
Liz gestured lazily. "This is Patrick McReary—Packie. And that quiet one back there? Arthur Morgan."
Niko gave them a nod. "Hey."
Packie tipped his chin. Arthur just stared back, assessing.
"Packie's shopping today," Liz continued, "but I never trusted the people he's buying off. So Arthur usually rides with him. But this time? I want extra insurance." She pointed at Niko. "That's you."
Packie grinned. "That's why you're the best, darling."
Liz waved him off. "Ah, maybe."
Packie pushed himself up. "Alright, lads—let's do this."
Arthur was already moving.
******
The dry cleaner's was a front, like most things in this city. Tucked in a grimy alley, the kind of place where nobody asked questions. Packie led the way, Arthur a step behind, hand resting near his Glock 17. Niko had peeled off earlier—"I'll find high ground"—leaving them to handle the meet.
Packie's associate, some nervous kid whose name Arthur hadn't bothered to remember.
Inside, the Spanish Lords were waiting.
"You Packie?" the lead guy asked, arms crossed.
"The one and only," Packie said, flashing a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "You got my shit?"
The dealer—some wiry bastard with a scar down his cheek—nodded to a duffel bag. "Money first."
Packie sighed, pulling out a wad of cash. "There. Happy?"
The dealer thumbed through it, then smirked. "Nah. We want double."
Arthur's fingers twitched.
Packie's grin faded. "The fuck you mean, double? We agreed on a price."
"Prices change, pendejo."
"Not for me, they don't." Packie's voice turned dangerous.
The dealer's hand moved toward his waist—
BANG.
Arthur's Glock was out before the first bullet left the barrel. Two Spanish Lords dropped before they even cleared their pieces. Arthur dove behind a dumpster as return fire chewed up the alley.
Then—CRACK.
A sniper shot. One of the gunmen's heads snapped back, blood misting the air.
Arthur glanced up.
Niko. Perched on a rooftop across the street, rifle steady.
"Fuckin' A," Packie muttered, firing from behind a stack of crates.
The firefight was brutal but short. Arthur picked off another shooter, then spun when he heard Packie grunt—one of the Lords had rushed him, knife flashing.
Arthur lunged, grabbing the guy's wrist and twisting hard. The knife clattered to the ground just as Arthur buried his own blade in the man's ribs.
Packie gasped. "Christ, Morgan—!"
"Move," Arthur growled, shoving him aside as another bullet whizzed past.
Niko's rifle spoke again. Another body dropped.
Then—silence.
The alley was a graveyard. Packie's associate lay dead near the door, eyes wide.
Packie exhaled sharply. "Well. That could've gone better."
Arthur holstered his Glock, glancing up at Niko, who was already climbing down.
"Could've gone worse," Arthur muttered.
Packie grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Aye. Luck of the Irish, eh?"
Arthur didn't answer.
******
The bar was a dive—dim lighting, sticky floors, the kind of place where nobody asked questions. Perfect for men like Arthur and Packie. They'd left the bodies in the alley behind them, the adrenaline of the shootout still humming in their veins. Niko had peeled off—"Got business"—leaving the two of them to drink away the tension.
Arthur tossed back his third whiskey, the burn familiar, comforting. Packie grinned, slapping a deck of cards onto the table. "Fancy a game, cowboy?"
Three other men—a grizzled trucker, a slick-haired suit who looked like he'd lost his way from a Wall Street office, and a wiry mechanic with grease still under his nails—glanced over.
"You in?" the suit asked, already shuffling.
Arthur exhaled smoke from his cigarette. "Deal me in."
Arthur's cards were shit—a seven and a deuce, unsuited. But the table didn't know that.
The trucker bet heavy, his thick fingers tapping the felt. "Twenty."
The mechanic folded. The suit smirked, matching.
Arthur didn't blink. "Call."
The flop came: King, seven, three.
Arthur paired his seven. Not great, but not nothing.
The trucker grunted, tossing in another twenty. The suit raised to fifty.
Arthur took a slow drag of his cigarette, then pushed forward a stack. "Hundred."
Silence.
The trucker squinted. "The hell you got?"
Arthur just stared.
The suit folded first, muttering about "reckless assholes." The trucker hesitated, then cursed and tossed his cards in.
Arthur flipped his seven and deuce.
Packie burst out laughing. "You son of a bitch!"
Arthur smirked, dragging the pot toward him.
This time, Arthur had something real—pocket queens.
He played it slow. Checked the flop (ten, queen, four). Let the suit bet into him.
The turn was a two. Nothing.
The suit smirked, pushing forward a stack. "Two hundred."
Arthur pretended to think, then sighed. "Call."
The river? Another queen.
Arthur had a full house.
The suit went all-in.
Arthur called without hesitation.
The man flipped his cards—ace-high flush.
Then Arthur showed his queens.
The suit's face went slack. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Packie cackled, slamming his drink down. "That's how it's done, lads!"
By now, the table was wary. Arthur had taken half their money.
This hand, he had nothing again—a three and a nine. But the flop came three, nine, jack.
Two pair.
The mechanic, desperate, shoved all in.
Arthur called.
The man had a jack—top pair.
Arthur's two pair held.
The mechanic stood up, shaking his head. "I'm done."
Packie raised his glass. "To the winner!"
Arthur didn't celebrate. Just stacked his chips.
Arthur left Packie to gloat, heading to the bar for another whiskey. The bartender slid him the glass without a word.
Then—
"You cheat?"
A woman's voice. Low, amused.
Arthur turned.
She was younger than him—mid-twenties, maybe. Curves in all the right places, dark eyes that held a challenge. Latina, no question. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, a few strands escaping, framing a face that was all sharp edges and confidence. She wore a supermarket vest, nametag reading "Marisol", but she carried herself like she owned the place.
Arthur took a sip. "Don't need to."
She smirked, sliding onto the stool beside him. "So you're just that good?"
"Or they're that bad."
She laughed—loud, unapologetic. "I like you. You don't talk much."
Arthur shrugged. "Ain't got much to say."
She leaned in, close enough that he caught her scent—vanilla and something spicy. "Or maybe you just don't think anyone wants to hear it."
Arthur stiffened. Too perceptive.
She noticed. "Oh, come on. A guy like you? All quiet and mysterious? You've got stories."
"Not good ones."
"Even better." She flagged the bartender, ordered a tequila. "So. You got a name, or do I just call you Mr. Poker Face?"
"Arthur."
"Marisol." She clinked her glass against his. "So, Arthur. You gonna ask for my number, or do I have to do that too?"
Arthur almost choked on his drink. "Lady, I—"
"Uh-uh." She held up a finger. "Don't give me that 'I'm too old' or 'you don't know me' bullshit. Life's short. You seem interesting. I want a drink with you. Maybe more." She grinned. "So. What's it gonna be?"
Arthur stared at her. Then, slowly, he pulled out his phone—a cheap flip thing Elizabeta had forced on him.
Marisol took it, punched in her number, then handed it back. "There. Was that so hard?"
Arthur pocketed it. "Guess not."
She winked, downed her tequila, and stood. "Don't make me wait too long, cowboy."
Then she was gone, leaving Arthur with a phone number, a half-finished whiskey, and the strangest feeling that, for the first time in a long time, someone had actually seen him.
Packie appeared, clapping him on the back. "Well, well. Looks like you're the lucky one tonight in more ways than one."
Arthur didn't answer.
But he saved the number.