Chapter 10: Russian Roulette

“Fuck you, dwarf!” Anatoly spat out the curse in a thick Russian accent, his tone dripping with contempt, leaving no room for doubt.

Lotus exploded in anger. “Fuck you, white pig!”

The commotion grew even louder at this all-encompassing insult.

“Fuck your bloody mother, dwarf!” Anatoly shot back.

Amid the raucous jeering of the crowd, who always relished a spectacle, Luke rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and landed a heavy blow on Lotus, disguising the man’s pained yelp with a cough. Then, Luke calmly walked back to the table and took his seat.

“How do you want to bet?” he asked Anatoly, his voice cool and even.

Even without Lotus fanning the flames, Luke could no longer tolerate Anatoly. This greeting had to be answered in kind.

Luke thought, since this Russian thug is so eager to lose everything tonight, he would oblige. He’d come here tonight to stir up trouble anyway, so why not make it a bigger scene?

From the very start, he’d been prepared for the inevitable conflict of the evening. After all, everyone knew what kind of place this was. Sooner or later, it would come to blows.

Anatoly looked immensely pleased with himself, as if goading Luke into anger was a feat worth bragging about.

He lit a thick cigar, holding it between his fingers as his other arm snaked around the waist of the blonde woman at his side. Anatoly lifted his chin, his voice scornful as he addressed Luke. “I’m tired of dice. How about we play blackjack?”

Luke shook his head without hesitation. “Don’t know how.”

“What, you don’t know how?” Anatoly sneered, his face full of mockery. “Coming to a casino and not knowing how to play blackjack? Fine, you tell me, what do you know how to play, dwarf? I’m not going to lose to you.”

Anatoly flicked his cigar ash, raising an eyebrow as he added, “Anything but dice.” Then tacked on, “I’ve had enough of that game.”

It sounded impressive, but in truth, Anatoly was rattled by Luke’s incredible luck at the dice table just moments before. He genuinely didn’t want to play dice with him again.

Not a single onlooker had left. The audience was practically buzzing with anticipation, eager to witness the next round of this drama.

Someone suggested, “How about roulette? Don’t forget, this is the Roulette Casino, after all.” The suggestion was met with enthusiastic approval from the crowd.

“Roulette?”

Luke and Anatoly exchanged a glance.

“No problem,” Anatoly replied with a grin, spreading his hands to show off the tattoos on his brawny forearms.

Luke frowned slightly, considering for a few seconds before nodding. “All right. Roulette it is.”

Roulette was another globally popular staple of the casino.

Typically, there are thirty-seven betting slots on a roulette wheel, which spins clockwise. The dealer, acting as the house, launches a small ball onto the wheel, and wherever the ball lands determines the winning number.

Players can bet on multiple numbers in advance. Generally, bets can be placed on odd, even, red, black, high, low, early, middle, late, first line, second line, third line, even corners, sides, and so on, each with its own odds.

All in all, the rules of roulette are far more complex than those of sic bo.

Fortunately, this game also depends largely on luck.

As long as luck was the main factor, Luke was supremely confident he could win. He leaned back in his seat, small in stature but radiating an undeniable presence.

“You seem pretty confident, don’t you?” Anatoly cast Luke a sidelong glance.

“Not bad,” Luke replied, his voice altered by a voice changer, making it sound both low and hoarse. “I think everyone here tonight knows I’ve won quite a lot.”

His words were met with a thunderous, unified cheer from the crowd. “God of Gambling! God of Gambling!”

With the duel now set on roulette, the gamblers were beside themselves with excitement. Some even urged the casino to open side bets on who would ultimately win, Luke or Anatoly.

Anatoly let out a snort through his nose, his eyes fixed coldly on Luke. “Do you know what roulette is called? Russian roulette. What makes you think you can beat me?” His voice was thick with his native accent.

His heritage was clear from his name alone. He’d also been introduced as a notorious member of the Russian mafia from Hell’s Kitchen.

Luke couldn’t be bothered to answer. Inwardly, he sneered, “Why? Because with luck alone, I’ll have you kneeling in defeat.”

Soon, a team of casino staff transformed the table before them into a proper roulette station, setting up a standard Russian roulette wheel.

The casino also brought in a new dealer to oversee the duel.

Such head-to-head challenges were obviously not uncommon in this establishment, and the staff handled the transition with practiced efficiency.

However, tonight was special—Luke’s earlier streak at sic bo was nothing short of miraculous. The new dealer seemed different from the rest.

Luke noticed thick calluses on certain fingers—a clear sign of a seasoned player, unless one could get calluses from cards alone. The slight bulge beneath the dealer’s jacket at his waist confirmed his suspicions.

With a professional smile, the dealer introduced himself as a certified dealer from a legitimate Las Vegas casino, assuring both parties of his top-tier skills.

“I’m sure your aim is just as good,” Luke thought to himself.

Surrounded by the eager, buzzing crowd, the duel began.

Once he saw the Russian roulette wheel up close, Luke was even more convinced that, unlike in the movies, the dealer couldn’t covertly manipulate the outcome.

To make a ball land precisely in such a tiny slot was sheer fantasy—unless the dealer happened to be a mutant with telekinetic powers, such precision would be impossible.

The intricately arranged slots on the wheel meant that a hair’s breadth could separate a win from a loss.

In short, this game was almost entirely ruled by luck. Luke relaxed completely.

Casino owners weren’t fools. The presence of roulette in casinos worldwide proved it was profitable for the house. Most games favored the house by design.

Just as in sic bo, where one and eighteen are house wins, and triples mean the house takes all, roulette operated on a similar principle.

Hence the old adage: “Nine out of ten gamblers lose.”

For the players, the window to win was extremely narrow. Only by landing within that slim margin did they stand a chance, and the odds of winning were pitifully small compared to the likelihood of losing.

But, as always, none of this applied to Luke tonight.

With his luck doubled, losing was simply not an option.

The outcome of the duel was predictable.

In the first round, Luke bet on odd numbers. Anatoly, ever the contrarian, bet on even.

The ball landed in slot number seventeen. Odd.

Luke’s undefeated streak from the dice table continued, igniting the crowd’s enthusiasm. The chant of “God of Gambling” once again thundered through the casino, drawing even more spectators.

Anatoly snorted, face dark. “Again!”

He refused to believe anyone could be this lucky. In his experience, luck was a wheel that turned—surely it was his turn now.

But fate had other plans.

Tonight, Lady Luck was not on Anatoly’s side. Luke, it seemed, had her all to himself.

Second round: Luke bet on odd again. Anatoly stubbornly chose even.

Regardless of what happened, he was determined to oppose Luke at every turn.

Once more, the ball landed on an odd number.

Thirty-one. Odd.

A smoldering fury welled up inside Anatoly. He slammed the table with a fist, his voice grinding out, “Again!”

Luke remained calm and unruffled. Behind the mask, he allowed himself a slight, confident smile—a master in control, though no one could see him.

Third round: Anatoly rushed to bet on odd first.

Luke found it amusing but said nothing, placing his chips on even.

The wheel spun. The dealer pressed the electronic switch, launching the ball at a speed nearly too fast for the eye to follow.

Everyone held their breath—Anatoly and the crowd alike.

At last, the ball settled. Number two—a nice, big even number.

Anatoly nearly choked with rage, his face as black as the sole of a shoe, his features contorting in a grotesque snarl. Another wave of cheers thundered from the crowd, their allegiance obvious. Anatoly looked ready to explode.

The blonde beside him tried to comfort him, but he shoved her away with an impatient slap.

“Again!” he snarled, eyes locked on Luke, his cold, crazed grin like a starving wolf from Siberia.

Luke quietly placed his bet once more. Beneath the Iron Man mask, his smile faded as he glanced around the room, thinking, “I brought 163 electric grenades tonight. That should be enough.”