Fyodor Dostoevsky The Gambler นิยาย & เรื่องราว

“I, as you, Don Fabrizio, know, am a man of simplicity. I am also a man who likes to keep his word and thus expects the same from all with whom I engage in any kind of transactions, regardless of its legality. A decade or so ago, I lent money to a man named Igor Gomez, four hundred thousand dollars to be precise,and he was to pay back one hundred thousand dollars each over the next four years; a fair and reasonable plan which he agreed to. But after paying for one year, whether for financial constraints or whatever reason, he couldn't pay anymore. And instead of coming to me like a man and speaking up, he chose to flee. But in doing so, he failed to grasp that no one can run or hide from Ale

He could only let out muffled sounds. After that, I knocked him out once again. At the same time, I heard many screams of agony. I just closed my eyes to tune them out. Those young and beautiful blind masseuses dreamed of making a ton of money when they boarded the cruise. But they would never be able to leave the cruise with the money. Finally, the sounds died down at night. I clutched the keycard that I had found in the gray-suited man's pocket as I opened a small gap in the door.

Don't fantasize about making money in crooked ways. "You gambled, didn't you?" He said righteously, "I am an old man. So what if I lose? I've got a few pieces of land at home, and I can feed myself till the day I die. But you're different. Once you are addicted to gambling, you are doomed. Gamblers barely win. Do you think you can earn money from casinos easily?" Chelsea was at a loss for words. Although what he said made a lot of sense, she kept having the feeling that he was playing double standards here.

I lost it too long ago. “Please—” I pulled the trigger and watched the light leave his eyes. His body dropped to the ground like a sack of tomatoes. Blood splattered onto the creaking, rusty floor of his crappy as fuck house. I could practically smell the stench of his poverty. This was what gambling did to you. It eats you up from the inside-out and leaves you a shell, a hollow of yourself. Worst of all, you can't stop either. The devil would always be on your shoulders, whispering sweet promises of double abundance. Urging you to take that risk and when you do, he’d leave you alone, crackling in laughter as you fall deeper and deeper into the dark hole of despair.

And she forced herself to sleep when she heard the continuous kicking of Douglas. Douglas stayed at the door with his two bags for a very long time. He was right. He had nowhere to go and he was addicted to gambling. Last night, he gambled with some fierce men who won all his money. Then he became optimistic all of a sudden and decided to play again. This time, he had no money. Unfortunately, he lost. The only way to bail himself was his life. They were at the point of taking his life with a gunshot when he said,

Normal debtors pay in time but rats, the people that gamble away money mostly never pay up, just like the man who he just left, his case had been worst, not only did he borrow so huge, but he also stole from him. “Details,” He asked and Yoey passed him the tab while explaining, Luciano went over it and shook his head. “We will go there as soon as we land in Russia,” “But the don,” “I will see him after that,” He said leaving no room for further talks. The neighborhood was freaking low quality, how would they give such a person the time of the day and even end his money? Let him play games? “Are you sure we are in the right neighborhood Yoey?”

Afterall, they are all on his payroll. I eventually find Dante outside near the pool lounge area, stretched casually against one of the cushioned chairs with a half-empty beer in one hand and a copy of Crime and Punishment resting open across his lap. The late afternoon sunlight catches against his dark hair and sharp features, making him look unfairly beautiful in a way that instantly irritates me. Who knew he is a fan of Fyodor Dostoevsky. The moment he notices me approaching, he sighs heavily and shuts the book closed.

The ember flared against the darkness, momentarily painting his sculpted face in shades of crimson and gold. His father would want a full report later. Fyodor Dostoevsky, head of the largest and most feared Bratva in Russia and maybe the world, was a man who demanded excellence — who demanded everything. Tonight, Andrei would be expected to recount every detail: who attended, what was bought, who whispered secrets over fluted glasses of poisoned wine. It was politics disguised as pleasure. Power masked as art and culture. Andrei thought it laughable. He was only here to retrieve a painting — a damn painting at that.

“You were a terrible husband and an even worse father. You stole from us, hurt us, then disappeared when things got tough.” “I hit a rough patch!” Frank protested, his voice rising. “The cards weren’t falling my way. But I’m due for a big win—I can feel it. I just need a stake to get back in the game.” His desperation was palpable, obvious to anyone within ten feet. The gambling addiction had its claws deep in him, turning him into this hollow-eyed stranger who would rob his own family without remorse. “There’s no such thing as a ‘due’ win, Frank. That’s not how probability works.”

"He showed up at my family's casino out of nowhere and beat me, I mean completely crushed me. His gambling skills? Insane. I had no choice but to bow down." Mark gasped. "You're saying that guy from Millers Casino previously, that remarkable young gambler, he's your friend?" He'd heard whispers of that gambler, especially the story of using cards like weapons. “Exactly!" Desmond said with a proud grin. "After he mopped the floor with me, we became friends. He knows Epic, and once I'm good enough, he's gonna introduce us." His face practically glowed with excitement. “I don't buy it, unless you call your friend and have him come over," Mark challenged, looking unconvinced.