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I reprogram my device all the time. Right now, it's set to rig each slot game for small, varied winnings, manipulating the random number generator in the machines to turn the odds in my favor just slightly with every pull.
It's subtle but highly effective. I rarely go for big jackpots all in one go—too conspicuous.
After a while, I've accumulated a few thousand dollars in winnings. Whenever the machine comes out "randomly" in my favor, I clap and chatter excitedly, playing my part perfectly.
The older man beside me raises bushy brows. "That lucky coin of yours must really work."
I notice a slot attendant wandering over and smile wide at the old man beside me. "It wouldn't be lucky if it didn't, now would it?"
The slot attendant stops beside us, and I adjust myself in the most natural-looking way possible so that my body blocks the small device still doing its job behind me. But like I said, it's all about misdirection—so I put on a dazzling smile and lean forward as I greet the attendant. As expected, his gaze drops to my cleavage, and he looks me over with appreciation.
"Looks like you've got Lady Luck on your side tonight, Miss…?" the attendant prompts, still checking me out.
"Paige," I fib with a bright laugh. "I know, right? God, I'm so excited! This is my first time trying slot machines, and the bachelorette party I'm here with told me I wouldn't make jack, but look at me go! I'll spend some of this on a round of drinks tonight just to rub all their faces in it."
All lies. There's no bachelorette party—just my team of undercover, cutthroat, elite, highly dangerous hackers, and no way is a dime of my winnings going toward buying them a drop.
The slot attendant smiles at me, charmed by my bubbly chatter, and he totally buys that this is my first time, so of course, he recommends that I keep playing the slots to see if I can "double or even triple" my winnings. He's really slick with his words, and I'm sure if I really was an amateur, he'd be making the house some serious bucks by getting me to play until I lost everything.
But the Golden Flame Casino has already taken too much from me, just like any other casino.
As the attendant keeps chattering, I get the feeling someone is watching me, and I glance across the room. The vaulted second story of this place has an indoor balcony looking down on the casino floor, where more people are chattering, and security guards and attendants stand in their places, but the man I catch watching me is none of those things.
Though I do not react, my heart jumps when I realize who the guy watching me is.
It's evident by the way he holds himself, arrogant and sure, his hands tucked into his suit pockets as his steely dark eyes remain trained on me from across the room. He's tall and almost painfully handsome, and even from here, I can see tattoos peeking out of his finely tailored suit. His shoulders are broad, his dark hair styled perfectly—but while he looks like the picture of the sleek Vegas businessman, there's an edge of danger to his entire countenance that is absolutely unmistakable.
Mafioso.
Everyone who's anyone in the hacking underbelly of Las Vegas knows which casinos are owned by the mafia. The Golden Flame Casino is right at the top, owned by the notorious Caputo family—and this guy watching me? I'd bet my "lucky" coin that this is the Domenic Caputo I've heard about. The heir of the Caputos, an unforgiving and brutal don whose business acumen is almost as legendary as his family's fierce, proud reputation. He's the son of the casino owner.
I should probably be nervous that he's watching me so closely. After all, it could mean he's suspicious of the winnings I've accumulated.
But instead of feeling fearful under his penetrating stare, my skin warms.
I bite my lip and look back at the slot attendant, who's now demonstrating placing varying bets on another type of slot machine. It's difficult not to laugh in this guy's face—if only I could tell this chump that I've scammed enough money from machines like this to buy a couple of houses in the Bahamas.
But I got only some of that money because the team I work with comes with a price. Some amount of security always comes at a cost.
And speaking of my team, I really need to wrap it up here and give them an update. Especially if the dark-eyed, gorgeous Domenic Caputo is still watching me...which he is.
Every now and then, after the slot attendant has wandered away, I glance over to where the mafioso chats with others on the second floor. He moves around a little, checking in on the operations of his casino, but every time I glance over at him, his eyes move back to me. As if he can sense me as much as I feel his presence in this building.
By the time I've worked several different slot machines, I've subtly rounded up almost twenty thousand in winnings. It's a big chunk of change, but there were no jackpots and nothing to tip off attendantsorMr. Caputo, what I was up to.
I'm feeling pretty good about myself. Why not be smug, having successfully scammedtheone and only Golden Flame Casino out of so much without even an eyebrow raised in my direction?
"Good luck," I tell the older man from before when I pass by him again on my way out of the slot machine area of the casino.
He glances at me. "Which machine did you just leave? Maybe I'll give that one a go."
I point the direction and can't help feeling slightly bad when he scrambles over to it. He's clearly desperate to get something out of this place, and I don't have the heart to watch yet another person fall for that. He's getting false hope from my "string of luck," which should really be attributed to the clever little device I designed, now tucked safely back in my purse.
Still, I know from firsthand experience that no one can stop a gambler's trajectory but themselves.
Sighing, I call it a day and decide to take my winnings to the bar. I may as well get myself a drink before cashing out and leaving the Golden Flame Casino to hack again another day.
As I leave the area with the slot machines, I glance over my shoulder again. Domenic Caputo isn't looking now. Instead, he's speaking with a couple of older, richly-dressed men who look almost as serious as he does.
