HOW MUCH OF THIS STORY IS TRUE? Read
it. Decide for yourself.

Miami Roulette

The Dark Side of Miami

By SAMUEL ARAKEL

Copyright © 2026 Samuel Arakel

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

This novel is based on real events. Certain names, characters, and details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Not everything in this story is fiction.

ISBN: 978-8-39805-004-3
First Edition, 2026

Author: Samuel Arakel
Cover Design, Layout and Typesetting: Arakel Holdings LLC.

Content Advisory

This book is intended for adult readers (18+). It contains
explicit sexual content and themes that may be disturbing to some readers.

Reader discretion is advised.

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1 - The Bermuda Triangle

Chapter 2 - The Warning Sign

Chapter 3 - The Wife in Miami

Chapter 4 - Nina’s Luxury World

Chapter 5 - Sara 2.0

Chapter 6 - How to Catch a Billionaire

Chapter 7 - Shopping Gone Wrong

Chapter 8 - Fake It Till You Make It

Chapter 9 - Swallowed by the Game

Chapter 10 - The Burning Palm

Chapter 11 - Monika and the Mysterious Envelopes

Chapter 12 - Inside the Hidden World

Chapter 13 - The Love Pill

Chapter 14 - The Private Jet

Chapter 15 - Big Tony’s Story

Chapter 16 - Addicted to the Game

Chapter 17 - No Limits

Chapter 18 - The Birkin

Chapter 19 - Losing Herself

Chapter 20 - The Moment of Truth

Chapter 21 - Instagram: The Reward of a Lifetime

Chapter 22 - The Power Shift

Chapter 23 - The Illusion of Reset

Chapter 24 - The Pursuit of Truth

Chapter 25 - Everything Is for Sale

Chapter 26 - The Secrets They Buried

Chapter 27 - A Game for the Elite

Chapter 28 - Where Morals Die

Epilogue

WELCOME TO THE GAME.

How far would you go?

Introduction

Inspired by real events. Miami
, 2020–2025.

At some point, Miami stopped being a city. It became a filter. Money came in. Power came in. Ambition came in. And only certain people made it through.

The pandemic didn’t change the game. It removed the brakes. Fortunes started flowing into one place, quietly, without records, without questions. And where money moves like that, something else always follows.

Beyond the horizon, where private yachts vanish into open water, behind glass towers and perfectly edited lives on social media, there was another world. Not advertised. Not explained. Not meant to be seen.

A world built on desire, ego, and control. No rules. No limits. No exit.

The people who had everything got bored. And boredom is where it starts. They wanted more. Not better—more. Stronger. Deeper. Further. Until “more” stopped being a choice and became a need.

And the ones who stepped into that world, even for a moment, out of curiosity, for fun, for money—they all believed the same thing.

That they were in control.

They weren’t.

Because this isn’t a world you walk away from. It’s a world that adjusts to you. Studies you. Pulls you in—slow enough that you don’t notice when it’s already too late.

Miami Roulette

In Miami, you either play the game…

or the game starts playing you.

Prologue

The waves crashed against the shore, invisible in the blackness of the night. Rafael stood motionless, looking at the lights—the ones from the skyscrapers, cold and orderly, and the ones from the yachts, scattered carelessly across the water.

This view used to be his dream. Now he looked at it without expression, as if he no longer even felt the pain. As if there was nothing left inside.

He wondered: if he could give it all back—the money, the influence, the luxury, the world he had spent years climbing toward—in exchange for a normal life, would he?

For a simpler life. For people he could trust. For the feeling that something was still real.

Once, he would have made that decision without hesitation.

Now he wouldn’t.

His old world, the one where people were good and trustworthy, had turned into hell.

In hell, idealism does not survive. Life forces you into choices you once believed were impossible. And in the end, it teaches you one thing: that the only thing that truly matters is power. And power always follows money.

And that is enough to destroy whatever good is left in people.

Chapter 1 - The Bermuda Triangle

At the lights ahead of them, a pink Porsche comes to a stop, so pink it almost hurts to look at. The kind of pink that screams: I’ll agree to anything, and he pays for the Porsche. Maybe the next one will buy me a Lamborghini.

A Cartier Love bracelet glints on the hand resting on the door frame, along with a two-tone Rolex Datejust. Inside the car, a flash of blonde hair—the final piece of the puzzle. On Instagram, she’s probably announcing the “success of her life”, inspiring others with advice on how to “get where she is,” throwing around hundreds of empty tips without a single concrete detail.

One. Big. Fake.

Miami in a nutshell.

Rafael smiles to himself. Everyone has their own road to success. Some people build start-ups; others slip into skimpy bikinis and brand-new lips, ready to do whatever it takes for a taste of the high life. Classy or trashy, it doesn’t matter, as long as it’s expensive.

The blonde in the Porsche isn’t that different from the woman sitting next to him anyway. Same bracelet, only diamond-studded. Rolex? Not yet. Blonde extensions—check. Figure—beautiful. Instagram? Of course. Over a million followers, though no one really knows what they’re following. But that counts too. In this city, everything shines. Even shit wears gold and pretends to be a trophy.

They drive along Collins Avenue.

On the left, they pass Eden Roc, then Fontainebleau and LIV, where Tiësto played last night. On the right, past a long palm-lined sidewalk, yachts sit in the water, some small and cozy, like apartments, others floating mansions with egos of their own. Sometimes it feels like there’s a yacht for every palm tree in Miami.

Before they reach the long bridge connecting Miami Beach to Downtown, they pass a poorly lit parking lot by the ocean. Their spot. Always empty when they need it. Rafael instinctively glances that way. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sara looking in exactly the same direction. Her hand lands on his knee.

He doesn’t react, so she straightens her back in that slow, provocative way she always uses when she wants his attention. She learned it when she started living her double life.

He knows she’s playing a game.

Alright, he thinks.

Then I’ll play too.

Without a word, he turns into the parking lot.

Outside the window, the ocean pulses, and a slow pulse begins beneath Sara’s underwear when she sees Rafael park in exactly that spot. She reaches for his zipper and starts stroking him with her left hand without changing her position. But since she’s right-handed, it looks less like seduction and more like she’s trying to shift gears with his penis.

“Patience,” Rafael says through clenched teeth.

They had lost count of how many times, after parties, they had stopped here for sex with a view. It was their little break before going back home and returning to their regular roles: the responsible mother and the responsible father.

The tinted windows gave them the illusion of privacy, but there was always a risk—and that was what excited her. Once, a Black guy even stopped and stared through the side window while Sara, her dress pulled almost up to her neck, rode Rafael like she was possessed. Rafael wanted to stop immediately, but she only tensed and moved faster. The fact that someone was watching turned her on.

But this time, he isn’t doing it for her. Or maybe only partly. She will relax, and he will feel like the old days again. Before all that shit happened. Back when things were still normal.

He pulls the handbrake. They look at each other. Her hand slides higher. Rafael pushes the seat back and pulls her onto him. He lifts her dress and notices she’s wearing a thong. A new habit.

For twenty years of marriage, she had never worn sexy underwear. Now she suddenly does, and he knows exactly why. For whom.

Anger rises again. He doesn’t take the thong off, just shifts it slightly to the side. It will probably dig into him—just like the fact that it appeared on her only after she started cheating on him.

They have sex in the driver’s seat. Hard. Fast. Without words. Rafael grips her small, firm ass in a way that gives him complete control over her. His left hand moves to her breast and he squeezes hard. He drives into her with one goal—to make her come as fast as possible.

After a few minutes, Sara begins to climax. Then he moves his hand to her neck and chokes her without mercy. These are not the days when he used to be gentle with her. Not after everything he now knows about her. Her orgasm becomes even more intense.

When Sara finishes, she realizes Rafael hasn’t. She tries to get up and lean down to finish him with her mouth, but he lifts her chin with a firm movement.

“Time to go,” he says sharply. “Don’t forget we’ve got something much better waiting for us.”

On the way to the hotel, Rafael glances at Sara again. Her blonde extensions spill over her surgically enhanced, but not overdone, breasts. Her pale skin and blue-green eyes contrast with his darker complexion and black stubble.

Long lashes and slightly filled lips give her that characteristic Miami vibe, though not to the point where they look like overinflated pillows, like some of the girls in this city.

On her face, the familiar mask of a double player: the expression of an angel covering a cold manipulator. She puts it on whenever something overwhelms her. And that happens more often than she admits. But today there’s a crack in it—small, but visible: nervous eye movements, biting her lip, tapping her finger against her leg.

“You’re nervous,” he says quietly. Not a question. A fact.

She doesn’t look at him.

“I’m nervous. Are you surprised?” she says. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

Neither had he. Except for that one time with three models, long before he met Sara.

But today he doesn’t need the things that used to get his blood going. He hasn’t needed them for a long time—not since he chose a different life. A family. Stability. Normality.

What did you bring us to? The silence between them seems to ask. Rafael drifts back into his thoughts.

What puzzles him most is how easily Sara arranged it a few days earlier. In less than half an hour she found an escort exactly his type: light blonde, Slavic beauty, petite, with a gaze that was part cold, part defiant.

“A friend once told me about this site,” Sara had said, showing him the photo.

“You have interesting friends,” he had replied.

“Just tell me if you like this one.”

Sara was clever. She knew the girl in the photo met all his requirements, but wasn’t real competition for her. Pretty, but not too pretty.

“Okay. Take her,” he had said finally.

Eventually, they pull up to the Hilton Miami Downtown. By their standards—modest. But the choice wasn’t accidental. Right next to it stands the building where Sara had cheated on him.

Rafael likes it when dirt has an address. It calms him. It gives him the illusion that anger can be locked into coordinates and betrayal trapped between two towers. If all the sins happen in one place, the rest of the world remains relatively clean.

He still believes it’s the only dark spot on the map of their marriage.

He passes the Hilton entrance. Sara turns to him with a questioning look. He only raises an eyebrow slightly and turns into the driveway of the building next door—the one his wife knows far too well.

The valet adjusts his cap and walks up to the car with a friendly smile.

“Apartment number and name?” he asks with a South American accent.

Without hesitation, Rafael gives the apartment number and the name of the young guy—the one who had drilled his way into their marriage, and most of all into his wife. He even spells it out, just in case Sara might think she misheard.

“L-O-R-E-N.”

Sara’s face instantly turns red. She shifts in her seat. She wants to say something, but before she finds the words, Rafael is already walking around the car and casually opening her door. As always—a gentleman. Only this time the courtesy is a harness. He offers his arm, but takes away her autonomy.

Sara keeps glancing at the building entrance, wondering if her former lover might walk out at any moment—taking his dog for a walk or coming back from work.

As he takes her hand, Rafael watches her step out of the car, dressed in a fitted black dress and black high heels with a gold Yves Saint Laurent logo. A classic Chanel bag hangs from her shoulder—his birthday gift to her. She moves beautifully, but her body betrays the tension; she would rather get back in the car and disappear.

“Relax,” Rafael says lightly, but without warmth. “This is my city. We have nothing to hide from anyone. Now we’ll calmly walk to the building next door.”

She feels lost. His confidence completely disorients her. She has known him for over twenty years, and yet she has never known this version of him. The man she cheated on is gone. In his place stands someone mysterious and shameless. Someone unfamiliar—and because of that, dangerously attractive. No one knows what he will do next. And that is probably what frightens and excites her the most—that now he is the one writing the script.

The apartment on the top floor of the Hilton is already prepared. In a silver bucket filled with ice, two bottles of champagne are chilling—they open one immediately, even before the “guest” arrives.

Rafael steps out onto the balcony with a glass in his hand. The night is thick and hot, the air sticking to the skin. The bay, spilled like ink, reflects the city lights; Miami pulses with light like a damp body after orgasm.

What am I doing here? he wonders. This goes against everything I believe in. Against my values. I like madness—but there are lines I never wanted to cross.

He looks toward their apartment building, visible in the distance to the left. That’s where they lived their beautiful family life—and, as it turned out, a dishonest one.

He turns to the right. There he can see the building where Sara had been sleeping with a twenty-eight-year-old.

This city is sick, Rafael thinks, looking at it all with quiet contempt. Beautiful, but sick.

Almost everyone here wants to screw everyone else over. Women drop pills into men’s drinks to loosen the mood and secure the wire transfers. Couples aren’t held together by love, but by an agreement about a monthly amount.

In this city, yachts, jets and villas are not luxury goods. Sooner or later everyone gets those.

The real luxury is normality. Loyalty. Love.

Sara had all of that in her hands and treated it as if she had thrown the rarest Diamond Himalaya Birkin bag from Hermès into a fire and just stood there watching it burn.

Out of that grotesque mess came today’s plan—the Bermuda Triangle. A carefully planned threesome, meant to patch things up and let them start again. A threesome arranged by a wonderful wife who wanted to please her husband. On her terms, of course.

From the very beginning, when the idea first appeared, she made it clear that all contact with the escort would go through her. Rafael was never to have any contact with her again.

Right, he had thought. She is terrified I might actually like her.

Meanwhile, Sara goes down to the lobby to meet the escort. Soon he hears footsteps in the corridor, then the door opens. A light laugh and a few sentences about the “beautiful hotel” and the “amazing view.”

Rafael stands by the window, taking a sip of champagne. Only after a moment does he turn toward them, unhurried, a half-smile on his face.

He looks at the escort and for a moment doesn’t know what to say.

Fucking Miami, he thinks. Again I get something different from what I signed up for.

The woman standing in the doorway of the living room does not look like the girl from the photo. Wavy hair tied in a messy bun. Heavy shoulders, not very feminine. A thick figure. Too much makeup.

Wrong order, the silence seems to say.

Rafael says nothing.

“Please, have a seat,” he says after a moment of silence, gesturing toward the couch opposite the bed.

“I brought red wine, but I see you already have champagne,” the escort says in a low, slightly raspy voice. “You look great, guys,” she adds. “You’re a beautiful couple.”

Sara stands off to the side. She watches Rafael’s every move, counts the pauses in his sentences. She waits for a sign. A look of understanding.

But she doesn’t get one.

Instead—perfect small talk. Smooth, polite, comfortable. A few questions: where the escort lived before Miami, how she likes it here, whether business is good. A conversation about nothing.

“So?” The escort leans toward Rafael, sliding her hand along his thigh as if absentmindedly. “Shall we start the fun?”

Rafael lets the moment stretch. He lets the champagne settle in the glasses, lets the silence linger a little longer.

Finally, he stands up slowly. He sets his glass on the table, unhurried. He had already made his decision the moment he saw her in the doorway.

“Listen… we need to clear something up,” he says at last.

When he has both Sara’s and the escort’s eyes on him, waiting, he says slowly:

“I’m not interested.”

“I’m sorry?” The woman’s voice trembles with disbelief, but even more with wounded pride. For a moment, she tries to figure out whether this might be some kind of joke meant to break the tension.

“I had a very specific vision for this meeting,” Rafael explains calmly. “You don’t look like the person in the photos, so we’ll stop here.”

The escort’s eyes widen in surprise.

“But this is Miami. Nobody looks like their photos here!” she replies with a small, nervous smile, as if still hoping this situation might turn into a joke after all.

Rafael stays silent a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then he takes cash out of his wallet.

“Here. The agreed amount. Plus a tip.” He places the bills on the table next to the glass.

“And you’re not even going to ask your wife for her opinion?” the escort says, this time with an edge. No joke now. But she reaches for the money at the same time.

“No. My wife has nothing to say here,” Rafael says, completely serious, firm, though inside he is already slightly amused.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the surprise on Sara’s lips turn into a smile she tries to hide by staring into the fascinating bottom of her empty glass.

The escort looks at him for a moment, no longer hiding her irritation, then finally stands and walks toward the door. On the way, she slips the wine she brought into her bag.

“Don’t let him treat you like that,” she says to Sara on her way out.

The door closes softly, though she had probably hoped it would slam like an exclamation mark at the end of a sentence.

A heavy silence settles in the room. Sara waits a few long seconds. Then she suddenly throws herself at Rafael and starts kissing him as if someone had just cut her brakes. He is hers again. Completely. She doesn’t have to share him with anyone anymore. Not anymore.

Rafael yanks her dress off and exposes her skin; her body reacts instantly, yielding under his touch. He grabs her by the hips and lifts her, pressing her against the wall. Sara unzips his pants and lets out a soft moan when he runs his mouth along her neck and stops at her ear.

“There’s room for only two people in this relationship. Remember that,” he says, almost angrily.

He enters her fast—shirt still on, pants only half down—as if he couldn’t afford to lose even a second.

They fuck everywhere—against the wall, on the floor, on the bed that keeps sliding under their urgency and has to be pushed back into place; her on top of him, him on top of her, from behind, sideways, until there is nothing left. For five straight hours, sex mixes with memories, regret, laughter, more sex, and then silent I’m sorry spoken only through their contrite eyes.

That night, for the first time, Sara squirts like that with him. Then again. And again. After the fourth time, she collapses onto the bed and starts crying—suddenly, silently, as if something inside her had cracked.

Rafael doesn’t finish. His mind has him by the throat.

He looks at her trembling body, at the tears leaving salty trails across her skin. He understands then that it isn’t orgasm that is freeing her. It’s guilt. Only for a moment.

He chose her again, just like he had chosen her for the past twenty years. And now she doesn’t want anything else anymore.

Rafael is filled with hope that this is a new beginning for their love. A cleansing from all the dirt they had covered themselves in.

Sara believes she has regained something she could have lost forever.

For their relationship, this is a revolution. A breakthrough. But not a happy ending.

Outside the window, Miami moves to its own rhythm. And somewhere, the first drop falls—the one that starts the hurricane.

This is a demonstration edition.
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