INT. BACKROOM OF A VEGAS CASINO – NIGHT
NICKY SANTORO (Joe Pesci type), dressed sharp but sweating slightly under the lights, leans in close to the camera. His voice is gravel, soaked in menace and street knowledge.
NICKY SANTORO (V.O.):
Let me tell you somethin’ about this guy—Joseph Wong. Now this ain’t your average Chinatown bookie, alright? This guy? He’s a ghost. Quiet. Calculatin’. Wears a smile like it’s a blade, and behind that smile? A f***in’ mainframe of numbers, algorithms, and—get this—blackjack-counting software the Triads been using to rinse Vegas dry since ’98.
They say he coded the whole thing himself, right? A program that doesn’t just count cards—it predicts shoe flow based on pit boss behavior, player fatigue, and even cocktail waitress timing. It’s like Rain Man with a grudge and a MacBook Pro.
Now here’s the kicker: Wong didn’t sell it. He licensed it. To the Triads. On a subscription model. Monthly fees, encrypted updates. Like he’s f***in’ Microsoft.
He taps the table, smirks.
You know how humiliatin’ it is for a made guy like me to see Wong’s guys walk in—Gucci belts, no chips, no fear—start lightin’ up the tables, makin’ eye contact with the dealer like they’re best friends?
And they clean up. I’m talkin’ $800K on a bad weekend. Not flashy either. They play dumb. Act drunk. One of ’em pretended he didn’t know how to sit in the chair. Next thing you know? He’s got five blackjacks in a row.
And the feds? Please. They don’t touch Wong. Too slippery. They think he’s just some tech nerd with a gambling problem. But I know. I seen him at the Wynn, talkin’ to a guy who once threw a pit boss out a tenth-floor window in Macau. You don’t talk to guys like that unless you got serious backing.
He leans back, sighs like he’s telling a ghost story.
You wanna know the future of organized crime? It ain’t muscle. It ain’t guns. It’s guys like Wong. Guys who speak code and Cantonese. Guys who can take your casino apart with three lines of Python and a burner laptop.
And you can’t whack a hard drive.
