Kenzo
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Ivy White
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8.2M
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115
Rebecca walks into the underground poker room with one goal: win enough money to pay off her father’s debts before men come to collect. She thinks she can cheat the table, read the players, and slip out unnoticed.
But the moment the door locks behind her, she realises she’s stepped into the wrong game. This isn’t just a poker ring. It’s a trap built by Kenzo Robernero, the cold, calculating leader of the Società Oscura. All of the players in the room answer to him. Each card on the table is stacked in his favor and every newcomer is watched.
Now Rebecca is caught in a room where the stakes are lethal, the rules are unwritten, and the man across the table doesn’t tolerate cheats, but he does notice them. And once Kenzo notices you, the night stops being about cards and starts being about survival.
Age Rating: 18+
PROLOGUE
Roses are beautiful, but their scent carries the weight of sorrow—a reminder that even the most delicate things can leave scars.
The ballroom breathes in smoke and secrets.
Titans—powerful senators, corporate giants, arms dealers, and men who rule from the shadows sit around a stage. No one here raises their voice. Power doesn’t shout. It whispers.
At the center, a terrified man stands. No shackles, just fear pressing down on his spine. His name isn’t spoken. It doesn’t matter anymore. He betrayed them—whether through cowardice, greed, or failure, no one bothers to specify. The only thing that matters is the consequence.
Kenzo leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, legs parted. He’s not tense or eager.
A silver lighter spins slowly between his fingers, catching flashes of light. Flick. Spin.
The man on stage is shaking. Kenzo doesn’t acknowledge it—not truly. His gaze passes over the trembling figure like smoke drifting through a room, present but indifferent.
The weight of his stare is felt, though he gives nothing. No reaction. No curiosity.
Only the lighter... flick, spin—marking the seconds until something happens.
Beside him, the Don—Vinx sits in absolute stillness. His silence fills the room more than words ever could. No one looks directly at him. They glance at Kenzo instead, waiting for the movement that signals fate.
The auctioneer, a wiry man with a ledger and a voice like sandpaper steps forward. The auction begins.
“I’ll take his offshore accounts.”
“I’ll erase his identity.”
“I’ll make sure his family forgets his name.”
The man trembles. He tries to speak, but no one listens. Not yet.
Another bid.
Another asset stripped.
Kenzo closes the lighter with a click.
The room freezes.
Every guest knows what that sound means. Deals pause, glasses still mid-air and the man at the center stops moving for half a second.
Two men in tailored suits approach him carrying a single black envelope. It’s heavy, matte and sealed with a gold insignia.
They don’t hand it to him. They place it on the floor at his feet.
The man stares at it. His lips move in prayer. It’s the wrong room for gods, Kenzo thinks.
He bends to pick it up, hands shaking as he breaks the seal.
Inside, written in gold ink:
3:27 AM
His breathing is ragged and uneven because everyone in this room knows… no one survives past the time written in the envelope. It’s not just a sentence. It’s a ritual.
When the envelope is delivered, the victim’s home lights flicker once. Then a particular song plays— Crystal Castles - Transgender. By the final note, they’re gone. No blood trail or witnesses. Only silence.
The man falls to his knees, tears streaking his face. “Kenzo, please…” he rasps, desperately.
Kenzo doesn’t look at him.
Instead, he picks up his father’s untouched wine glass and raises it.
A toast.
Nothing more.
Vinx rises. Kenzo follows.
The man is led away, but the auction continues.
7:00 AM, Tokyo.
News breaks: A disgraced energy magnate is found dead in his penthouse. No sign of forced entry. Security footage is blank from 3:25 to 3:29 AM. A single cello note plays on loop from hidden speakers when authorities arrive.
7:00 AM, London.
A rival syndicate cancels a billion-dollar weapons contract. No public reason is given. Privately, an informant deletes every message involving the Don’s family. They scrub themselves clean before they’re scrubbed out.
7:00 AM, D.C.
A senator who was at the auction resigns abruptly. “Personal reasons,” his statement says. That night, his mansion is dark. The staff gone. His name won’t appear in any more conversations.
No bullet were fired. No spectacle. Just the sound of a lighter closing, a number written in gold, and a world that knows better than to question the silence.
Kenzo doesn’t need to speak. His authority is ritualized. Coded and final.
12:00 PM, Arlington
High-rise suite, sun bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows, a poker table sitting untouched, chips stacked, but no game is in motion. The real gamble isn’t with the deck.
Kenzo leans back in his chair. One leg crossed, hand resting lightly over his watch. He’s not fidgeting or being thoughtless. Every movement is controlled. Intentional. Across from him, Sawter Alvarez, a man with too much ambition and not enough patience, shifts uncomfortably. He came for answers. He’ll leave with consequences.
Kenzo doesn’t speak. He lifts his glass slowly. The room waits as he takes a sip.
Sawter exhales sharply, filling the silence. “Listen. I need to know—are we good?”
Kenzo places his drink down. A two-finger tap against the table.
Sawter flinches. He doesn’t know the code, but he knows enough to be afraid.
“I mean it, Kenzo.” He leans forward, hands on the felt. Too close. Wrong move.
Kenzo does nothing. The absence of response is its own answer. Sawter hesitates and feels it.
“…Look, if this is about the deal, I told you their names. I was stuck in the middle.”
Kenzo’s focus slides to the untouched poker chips. Not to Sawter. Never to Sawter.
His fingers drum once against the glass.
Sawters breath stutters. “You think I’m lying?”
Kenzo lifts his wrist an inch. His watch catches the light, his second hand ticking forward. His eyes never do.
Sawter looks between the cards, chips and the untouched deck. He swallows. “Kenzo—”
Kenzo pushes one chip forward with the tip of his finger. It spins once, landing flat.
A single movement. A message.
Sawter stands fast. He was never supposed to sit. The weight of unspoken warnings is unbearable as he wipes a hand over his mouth, nods and backs toward the door.
Kenzo doesn’t speak.
Sawter opens his mouth to beg, explain and try again—but he sees it now.
Kenzo’s drink remains untouched.
He’s already dismissed.
The room empties out and only Kenzo remains, seated at the poker table, fingers resting lightly against his glass. The untouched drink has turned cold.
Across the table, another envelope lies flat 3:27 AM, inked in gold. Sawter Alvarez won’t make it past sunrise.
Kenzo tilts his head slightly, looking at the window. Carter Harrod. Rebecca Ferez. Karl Ferez. He murmurs the names in his mind, the weight of each curling around his thoughts like smoke.
His father, Vinx, had given orders. Protocol dictated patience.
Kenzo lifts his hand, wrist flicking slightly.
The movement barely exists, but his shadow—his second-in-command—understands it. From the far corner of the suite, the man steps forward, nodding once. A silent question.
Kenzo taps his ring against the glass twice.
No need to wait. No need for permission.
Carter made mistakes. He let Rebecca move unchecked. And Karl? Karl forgot who watches from the dark, even when the lights are on.
Kenzo exhales slowly through his nose, rising.
No words or confirmation needed. The decision has already been made.
Tonight, he moves himself.
