Money Hustle Gambling Tattoos Novels & Stories

Ethan repeated in disbelief, irritation evident in his voice at the pitiful price placed on his wife's life. "Yes, sir. Whoever hired him is obviously short on money, but this man would kill for any amount, no matter how small. He saw an opportunity and took it despite the slim chances of success. He's desperate for money and addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes with killing," the man explained. Ethan's jaw tightened. "That bastard almost got my wife," he muttered darkly, his eyes fixed on the unconscious man strapped to the chair. "He'll pay for it, sir, and it won't come cheap. My men had quite a bit of fun with him before he finally started talking," the man assured him.

“What is it?” She took a breath, as if preparing to drop a bombshell. “Troy… he got involved in gambling. Apparently, he owes a huge amount of money. That’s why he spiraled so fast. It wasn’t just business pressure. He got involved with some unsavory characters, I guess.” Gambling? My mind raced, trying to connect the dots. This wasn’t the Troy I remembered, but desperation could change people. “Where? Which casino?” Jessica hesitated for a second, as if gauging my reaction. “The Mirage Casino.”

I can recognize his ring form here. His eyes was still on me when I blinked out of my daze of shamelessly checking him out. I’ve never wish the club manager gave me a waitress job instead of pouring drink here all night as much as I do now. I could have walked up to him for his number or something. A waiter came to get an order and when I was done there was no sight of the tattooed man and the guy he was sitting with. With him gone, I tried to ignore the erotic scenes in my head to no avail.

I simply barge in, equipped with goodies that can make a bent man straight. Goodies that keep every fucking person in the shop still. My fucking goodies are being hawked like a cheap toy. “I need a tattoo.” I step a heel on the chair, wide enough for them to get a good hint of my wet cunt. “All over,” my voice is a reckless moan. “And no, not with your pen.” The nasty smile starts creeping along my cheek. “With your rumored fat, dirty cock.”

she said sharply. Barry, who normally didn’t appreciate being ordered around, frowned slightly. “Alright. Rest for a bit.” He opened the car door and got out. Just as he was about to confront whoever hit their car, a group of thuggish men stepped out from the other vehicle. They were dressed like street punks, tattoos of tiger heads clearly visible on their arms—an unmistakable symbol of the underground gambling world, even if Barry didn’t frequent casinos. Four of them got out, each holding a baseball bat and a cigarette dangling from their lips. They approached him with malicious intent.

A trickle, barely covering fuel for the rigs. To stay afloat, I’d branched out. I ran underground fight clubs in abandoned lots off the Strip, where bets flowed like blood from busted knuckles. I set up online betting rings through dark web proxies, pulling in desperate gamblers from coast to coast. I even siphoned casino profits via encrypted apps, skimming slivers from high-rollers’ tables without tripping alarms. And the illegal gambling dens tucked into Henderson basements, with poker tables and dice games drawing the lowlifes who’d pay a premium for discretion. These side hustles patched the holes, but they were bandages on a gaping wound. Risky, volatile, always one raid away from coll

It slows right in front of me, and for a second, I think it’s going to stop. Maybe hitchhiking is a better idea than waiting for a cab. I step toward the street—and then it accelerates. The tire sinks into a puddle, and a mix of water and mud explodes straight at me, ruining my immaculate skirt. “Damn idiot! Are you blind or what?” I shout, furious, trying to see the jerk hiding behind the tinted window. The window rolls down slowly. Shamelessly. A long arm appears first. The sleeve of a black suit fits it perfectly, revealing a small but impossible-to-ignore tattoo on his wrist: a Roman numeral five.

I was the one who paid for everything, including household expenses and Rachel's medical bills. I never demanded money from her like Shane did, nor did I make such shameless and thoughtless threats. Unable to come up with that much cash—and egged on by Shane—the two of them came up with a delusional plan to head to the casinos in Harkensalle and try their luck. They probably believed that their gambling skills were that good and that they'd be sure to win at some point. The two idiots took out 200 thousand dollars in online loans and dove headfirst into that money pit that devoured people whole.

She has no idea who she is dealing with. "Oh hey Cheska right?" I said, as if we'd met at the mall. I know she's the one who took pictures of me and posted them. I would really love to shave her hair. "W-who are you?" She asked, trying to calm herself down after her terrified expression. Playing brave I see. I removed my mask and looked at her with a smirk playing on my lips. Her eyes widened even more when she saw my tattoo. Something on her chest drew my attention: she had a tattoo of a mafia logo, layered V and S with flames in the background, Villa Samonte Mafia. Who would have guessed that this babe is a member of the mafia?

Jem runs a hand through his hair sighing as he watches her go. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" Mr. Rux claps his hands together breaking through the ice of awkwardness surrounding us. He steps up to my right side holding up two tattoo stencils of a howling wolf. One is plain, the outline of a wolf howling at a moon. The other looks the same but with more decorations. There's dotted line work surrounding the wolf and it's standing on shaded ground. It's actually really pretty. If it didn't stand for what it does it's a tattoo I would happily get. "Which one?" Mr. Rux asks pretending as if giving me this choice means I'm choosing to get the tattoo. "Neither." I deadpan making Mr. Rux sig