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I don’t fuck with Lady Luck.
The giveaway is the elegant statue of the goddess herself carved over the archway of The Meridian, welcoming gamblers to my establishment. I prefer the high rollers. Nothing like a rich fool with money to lose. But I do take a certain sort of secret delight at seeing the average Joe rejoice in a win now and then.
Bambi’s roster of escorts isn’t simply an additional service we offer. It’s also our way of keeping tabs. When you know what your big spenders like, it becomes very easy to tempt them into doing it on camera. And when they know that you know… well, safe to say their business will remain ours for as long as they live.
It’s almost shocking how many powerful men have very particular tastes they’d never breathe to their closest friends or, heaven forbid, their innocent wives.
And not just corrupt politicians—athletes, too, and tech whizzes, and bad men with businesses almost as depraved as mine.
Also—federal judges.
Now,thatwas an unexpected surprise.
“Add a few more security personnel to the High Roller Lounge.” I tap a finger on my chin as I think. “Make sure they’re wired. And let’s extend VIP hospitality to Mr. Cartwell. Keep him happy and keep him rolling. Just make sure every word he breathes is recorded and transcribed.”
I open the door and step out onto the plush crimson carpet of The Meridian’s main entrance. It’s a bit of an old Hollywood touch I wasn’t sure about at first, but after seeing people stop and take selfies and follow it inside to try their luck at the slots, I decided to keep it. I did make sure the material wouldn’t catchon any stiletto heels—the last thing I need is a personal injury lawsuit splashed all over the headlines.
Good thing, too, because I don’t see the woman standing next to the car. The door nearly slams into her, but she manages to stumble backward without falling.
I ignore her. No harm, no foul, and not my fault or my problem.
But I do catch a glimpse of her in the corner of my eye. As I do, some faint spark of recognition ignites in the back of my mind.
“Is she one of ours?” I murmur to Bambi as I help her out of the car.
Bambi steals a quick glance and shakes her head. “Not on our roster.”
“Hm.”
“Want me to look into it?” She loops her arm through mine and leans in close so it looks like we’re sharing an intimate secret.
“Don’t bother. Just thought I recognized her.”
Bambi looks like she wants to press further, but she lets it go. Instead, she smiles cordially at the attendants as they open the glass doors for us and smooths a hand over her silk jumpsuit with a sigh. “Ready?”
I don’t answer. I simply lead us into the Main Floor and let the cacophony of the casino envelop us.
Time to get to work.
3
DEMYEN
It’s a busy night—as it should be, given that it’s Friday. Payday for the rank-and-file means the slots are fuller and the money is flowing from their hands to the machines to my pocket. Just the way I like it.
“Mr. Zakrevsky.”
“Good evening, Mr. Zakrevsky.”
“Good evening, sir.”
My name fills the air as I meander through the casino. My payroll is rife with people in every line of work imaginable. Not just escorts, but cocktail waitresses, bartenders, attendants, concierges, and the like. People who know better than to ask questions.
People who have nothing to do with the Zakrevsky Bratva.
“What can I start you off with tonight, Mr. Zakrevsky?” The bartender, Mike, flashes me a genuine smile and preps a tumbler with ice. He already knows what I’m about to order, but he always gives me the chance to surprise him.
I don’t. “Bourbon. On the rocks. Make it a double.”
