Prologue
Two commissionaires, clad in their impeccably tailored red coats, stand guard at the entrance to the Casino de Monte Carlo. As he climbs the steps toward them, they greet him by name out of acknowledgment and respect.
All the waiters, croupiers, and dealers at the Salle de Jeux know Mr. William Darnborough well, as he has taken this walk many times over the last four years. Their eyes are filled with secrets and whispered rumors, and they follow his every move. He strides through the great labyrinthine room, exuding an unsettling combination of serenity and unwavering determination, a predator navigating his hunting ground with considered purpose.
He is dressed impeccably in a hand-stitched black dinner suit with a rose-gold cravat, and his Italian leather brogue shoes click on the marble floor as he crosses the atrium.
He enters the Salle Garnier, with its high, glass-domed ceilings and ornate chandeliers, and he nods an acknowledgment to The Comte and Comtesse Sant Elia, Joseph Agid, and Viscount Kilmorey. In the Salle Touzet, he sees four croupiers at the roulette table, two on either side of the wheel and two at either end of the double-sided table. The man in charge, the Chef de Partie, sits on a tall chair behind the wheel and respectfully acknowledges Mr. Darnborough. He has heard acquaintances call him Bill, but he does not greet him by name, as this is not permitted.
Bill stands at the middle of the table. Always the middle, as this gives him the best opportunity to place his chips exactly where he wants them in as short a time as possible.
The dealer spins the wheel and fires the ivory ball in the oppo‐ site direction, announcing, “Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Place your bets, gentlemen.”
One of the other players hurriedly piles more chips onto the section of the table dedicated to the first dozen numbers, a desperate attempt to defy the mounting pressure. Another fellow gambler casts furtive gazes in Bill’s direction, his eyes darting back and forth as if searching for a sign, a hint of the impending move. Even though his mind is racing, Bill remains stony-faced and taps his fingers rhythmically on the table.
As the ball slows, the croupier looks up and around the table. “Les jeux sant faits. The bets have been placed.” Bill springs into action as if a jolt of electricity has surged through his body. With an astonishing display of agility, he employs both hands to unleash a torrent of chips from his reserve. Each chip finds its place with calculated precision, meticulously distributed across the third dozen. The towers of chips resemble a model of the Manhattan skyline and represent ten thousand glittering dollars that will be won or lost in this moment.
As the ball hurtles toward its destination, time slows to a crawl. The dealer prevents any last-minute additional bets as he waves his white-gloved hand over the table and insists, “Rien ne va plus. No more bets.”
“Now it is in God’s hands,” says one of the other players, his voice carrying a sense of resignation mingled with reverence. Whispers of suspense ripple through the crowd that has gathered to watch the ball complete its cruel dance, their voices charged with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
Bill, at thirty-five, exudes an air of quiet refinement. His chiseled features, accentuated by a clean-shaven face and impeccably combed-back, dark hair, lend an aura of sophistication. Behind this suave façade, lies a story etched in the lines around his eyes, a tale of clandestine affairs, shadowy encounters, and hidden secrets. Once innocent and hopeful, his eyes now bear the scars of a life lived on the edge as he watches the ball drop.
