Three weeks of Josephine's "training" had turned my world into a kaleidoscope of numbers and micro-movements. My fingers were raw, my eyes ached from staring at card backs until I could see the microscopic printing errors, and my mind was a sharpened blade.
"Field observation," Jo had grunted that morning, handing me a fake ID and a vintage cocktail dress. "Go to the Bellagio. Don't play a single hand. Just watch. If you can't tell me who the mark is within ten minutes, don't bother coming back."
Now, I was sitting at the high-limit bar, swirling a martini I had no intention of drinking. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and desperate hope. I watched Table 4—a Baccarat game where the minimum bet was ten thousand dollars.
An oil tycoon from Texas was throwing chips around like they were plastic toy coins. A nervous tourist in a Hawaiian shirt was sweating through his linen blazer. And then there was a quiet man in the corner, silver-haired and meticulously dressed.
"The tycoon is the sucker," I murmured to myself, leaning back. "He's tilting. Chasing his losses with aggression instead of logic. He'll be broke by midnight."
"A common mistake," a voice smooth as aged bourbon remarked from the stool beside me.
I didn't turn my head immediately. I used the mirror behind the bar to see him. It was the man from the basement game in Chicago. The one who had saved me from Tony's wrath. Julian.
He looked different in the light of the Bellagio. In his charcoal-grey bespoke suit, he looked like a prince of industry, but his eyes—dark, observant, and predatory—belonged to a wolf. He wasn't drinking. He was just... being.
"The tycoon isn't the mark," Julian continued, glancing toward the table. "He can afford to lose. The real sucker is the dealer. Look at her left hand. She's tired, she's missing the count, and she's terrified of the pit boss. The house is the one being bled tonight, and that quiet man in the corner? He's the one doing the surgery."
I looked again. Julian was right. The silver-haired man wasn't just lucky; he was timing the dealer's fatigue. I felt a flush of annoyance—I had missed the most important variable.
"Are you stalking me, Mr...?" I finally turned to face him, arching an eyebrow.
"Julian. Just Julian," he smirked, his gaze raking over my red dress with an intensity that made my skin tingle. "And let's call it 'proactive monitoring.' You've changed, Ivy. Your posture is different. You're not looking for an exit anymore. You're looking for a target."
"I'm just a tourist enjoying the view," I lied, my voice steady.
"A tourist with Josephine Cross's signature shuffle?" Julian leaned in closer, the scent of sandalwood and rain-washed pavement enveloping me. It was a dangerous, masculine scent. "You're swimming in a very deep ocean, Ivy Sterling. And while you might have learned to paddle, there are things in these waters that don't care how fast you can count."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a warning." He slid a black coaster across the marble bar toward me. "The Syndicate knows you're in town. Lucian isn't a patient man. If you try to hit the main floor tonight, you'll be flagged by facial recognition before you can even buy chips."
I looked at the coaster. On the back, written in a sharp, elegant hand, was a room number and a time.
"Liam Vanderbilt is hosting a private game in the High Roller suite at 2 AM," Julian whispered, his lips almost brushing my ear. The heat from his breath sent a jiver through me. "He's a narcissist with more money than sense, but he's also a genius in his own right. If you go there, he will try to destroy you. He loves breaking pretty things."
He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. "But if you don't go, you'll never make that five million in time. Decisions, decisions."
He walked away without looking back, disappearing into the crowd of gamblers and ghosts. I looked at the coaster. Suite 808. Password: Red Queen.
Julian was playing a game within a game. He was the one who had led the Syndicate to me in the first place, or he was the only one who could help me navigate the maze. Either way, he had just handed me the keys to the kingdom.
I finished my martini in one gulp, the gin burning my throat. I wasn't going back to the trailer. I was going to Suite 808. It was time to see if the Siren could actually sing.