The elevator to the 80th floor of the Bellagio was a vacuum of silence, rising so fast my ears popped. When the doors slid open, I wasn't greeted by a casino floor, but by a sanctuary of excess. Suite 808 was a sprawling expanse of white marble, floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the neon veins of the Strip, and an air of quiet, terrifying power.
"Password?" A man who looked like he spent his mornings crushing boulders with his bare hands blocked my path.
"Red Queen," I said, my voice projecting a coldness I had practiced in front of a cracked trailer mirror for hours.
He stepped aside. The living area had been converted into a high-stakes arena. There was only one table, illuminated by a low-hanging crystal chandelier that made the stacks of gold-leafed chips shimmer like dragon scales. There were four men at the table, but my eyes went straight to the center.
Liam Vanderbilt.
He didn't look like a billionaire. He looked like a bored predator. His hair was a chaotic blond, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway, and he was twirling a heavy gold coin between his knuckles with a fluidity that made my stomach do a slow roll. This was the man Julian warned me about. The man who broke pretty things.
"A new player," Liam said, his voice carrying a playful, jagged edge. He didn't look at my face; he looked at my hands. "And a woman. How refreshing. Most women in this suite are here to serve drinks or... other distractions. Which are you, darling?"
"I'm the one who's going to take that coin from your hand," I replied, pulling out a chair. The other men—a tech mogul and two silent, stony-faced Europeans—exchanged glances.
Liam grinned, showing teeth that were a bit too white. "Confidence. I like it. But confidence without capital is just a loud way to go hungry. Buy-in is five hundred thousand. Do you have it, or are you offering something more... personal as collateral?"
I felt the weight of the burner phone in my bag—the one Lucian had given me. I knew that if I lost the fifty thousand I had left, I was dead. But I also knew the first rule Jo taught me: The bet isn't on the cards; it's on the lie.
"I have something better than cash," I said, leaning forward into the light. "I have a secret about the Syndicate's upcoming move on the Atlantic City docks. One that Julian hasn't told you yet."
The name Julian acted like a physical strike. Liam's eyes narrowed, the playfulness vanishing for a split second. He leaned in, the scent of expensive cigars and ozone filling the space between us.
"You know Julian," Liam mused, more to himself than me. "Interesting. Very well, Red Queen. I'll stake your seat. But if you lose, you don't just leave. You belong to the house for the rest of the night. Do we have a deal?"
I looked at the 'Queen of Spades' I had hidden in my palm—a habit, a talisman. "Deal. Deal the cards."