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It's a good thing he's not looking because, in the next moment, a hand brushes against my back and redirects my steps, guiding me into the blackjack area.
I don't say a word—I already knew Ace would be looking for me soon. Still, I try to ignore the painful hammer in my chest at this guy's proximity as he walks languidly beside me, keeping a hand firmly on my back.
I have no idea what Ace's real name is. No one does.
All I know is that he's the leader of the Wild Seven—the group I work with. The highly-revered, elusive group of black-hat elite hackers is notorious for taking down machines and casinos. Each one of us has our own specialty. Some of them count cards like savants. Another one of us, who goes by Glitch, hacks into and takes out security systems like it's a breeze.
Me? Obviously, I'm the slot machine expert.
I started as a computer hacker before designing my own equipment, especially for ripping off casinos, and Ace found me not long ago. When this terrifying man offered me a place intheWild Seven, I didn't believe him at first—but now here we are, ambling through a casino together while I try not to panic at how quiet he's being.
Ace isn't scarred or tattooed or even very big. He's a slim guy with long pale fingers and a quiet voice. But that doesn't make him less terrifying. I've seen him do some shit that I really wish I could unsee.
"Following the rules, kid?" he murmurs, barely audible.
Ah, yes, the rules. The Wild Seven's rules aren't really so different from my own. Never hit the same place twice in a week, always wear a disguise, and never accept an offer to stay at a casino's hotel after winning a jackpot.
And many casinos do try to get jackpot winners to stay so the house can get some of that money back. But I always cash out and leave. It's just common sense when you've been rigging slots as often as I do.
"Of course," I reply to Ace, still not looking at him as we move around a blackjack table to backtrack. I keep my voice low. "And before you ask, yes, I hit the target amount. I'll meet with you later at the spot we always do to divvy up winnings. No worries."
He finally drops his hand, and I'm walking back toward the bar when I barely hear him quietly say, "If you're late, you'll regret it."
I don't doubt that. He's made itveryclear that he's not a man I want to cross.
It's moments like this, trying not to think about the frightening caliber of people I work with, that I question why I'm doing this. But then I take a deep breath of the unique Las Vegas casino scent, remember my father, and square my shoulders to get a drink.
Chapter 2
Domenic
The men I've been speaking with know precisely who I am, but unfortunately for them, they don't realize today has been particularly taxing. That means I'm feeling less like tolerating their bullshit than usual. They're on dangerously thin ice as I wait for them to finish with their rambling.
"—which is why we'll need that extension, of course," the second man fumbles.
"Two weeks," the first suggests. "We can have the paperwork sent over."
Idly, I imagine what my father would do here. He's excellent with snap decisions, which is one reason he, like most of my forebears, has made the Caputo family top dog in Vegas for so long.
But I don't like snap decisions. I like cold calculations and hard answers.
Like the contract these men want to change so close to its end. It's annoying. There are rules in business, even for a mafioso like me, and theyknowI don't bend deadlines, yet they still came here flexing for all their worth and reminding me of the value of their services to the Caputo family.
"Three days," I tell them. Before they can speak, I add, "Protest, and it will be one. You both have five minutes to leave my casino, or I'll pull the entire agreement and send Big Luck to collect what is already past due."
They pale. They've clearly heard of my closest friend and enforcer. His real name is Lucas Bellini, but only people on the inside of my family know that. To the rest of the world, Big Luck is a hulking mass of terrifying mobster muscle, perfect for enforcing shit when airheads like this don't get the picture.
The men scurry away, and I gaze again at the casino floor, searching. The weekends are always busy, and tonight the Golden Flame is particularly crowded. Still, I deduce quickly that the beauty with pink-toned curls is no longer playing the slots.
She had quite a string of fortune. Not enough for me to approach her and get a closer look—her winnings appeared hardly enough to strangle my family's casino out of any real pocket change. Still, I'd wanted to keep an eye on her, if only because she was so easy on the eyes.
And I appreciate anything easy on the eyes after a day like today. I sigh and roll my shoulders back. My father has been adding pressure lately for me to take on the family business. Looking at my surroundings, I again rue my indecision. My hesitation in taking over has nothing to do with my lack of understanding of the casino or the Caputo family. I'm sure I know everything I need to run things better than ever.
Rather, it has to do with not knowing what the hell Idowant. This is all I've known.
Deciding that I've had enough of mulling over my position, especially given the other nuisances that have been plaguing me today, I make my way toward the club attached to the casino. It's an ornate, dimly-lit club full of people laughing, clinking glasses, and dancing to the sensual music, they typically play.
"Negroni, straight up," I tell the bartender the moment their eyes snag on me. He knows who I am, too, and scrambles for the ingredients.
