1
NINA
My body knowsthe men are trouble before my brain catches up.
It’s something primal, the way my shoulders tense and my grip tightens on the tray of drinks I’m carrying.
Two men in black jackets—despite the hundred-degree heat outside—move through the Rockland Bar and Grill like sharks cutting through water. Everyone else in the casino’s casual dining spot keeps eating their overpriced burgers and nursing their watered-down cocktails, oblivious.
But my nervous system? It’s screamingrun.
I’ve gotten good at reading predators. Had to be, living with Eric for three years.
The men scan the restaurant with the kind of methodical attention that makes my stomach drop. Not looking for a table or checking out the menu.
Looking for someone.
Their eyes sweep past the tourists in their “What Happens in Vegas” t-shirts, past the group of twenty-somethings celebrating a birthday with shots that cost more than I make in tips on a slow day.
Then their gazes land on me.
Shit.
“Hey! Where’s our tequila?”
The shrill voice of the woman at table twelve snaps me back to the present. She’s glaring at me like I personally killed her buzz, which, fair enough—I’ve been standing here frozen like a deer in headlights instead of doing my job. I force my feet to move, weaving through tables toward her corner booth while every instinct I have tells me to bolt for the exit.
“Sorry about that,” I say, setting down their drinks with hands that are steadier than they have any right to be. Years of practice hiding fear, I guess. “Ready to order?”
But even as I scribble down their requests for loaded nachos and more alcohol, I’m hyperaware of the two men making their way toward the waitress station. Toward Jess, my boss, who’s suddenly looking pale as paper.
Jess hates me on a good day—something about her boyfriend asking me out before he noticed her, never mind that I turned him down flat. I’m not looking for another man who thinks he knows what I need. But the look she’s giving me now isn’t her usual petty irritation. It’s pity.
My blood turns to ice water.
I finish taking table twelve’s order and head for the kitchen, but my peripheral vision catches the men flanking Jess. She keepsglancing in my direction, biting her lip like she’s about to deliver bad news. The bigger guy—built like a linebacker with dead eyes—says something that makes her nod frantically.
In the kitchen, I slap the order ticket on the pass and try to breathe. The familiar chaos of sizzling pans and shouted orders usually grounds me, but tonight it feels like background noise to the panic building in my chest. I force myself to head back out to check on my other tables, but the moment I step through the swinging doors, I see Jess beckoning me over.
My legs feel like concrete as I walk back to her. The men are still there, radiating menace like heat off asphalt. Up close, they’re even more terrifying—the kind of guys who break kneecaps for a living and sleep soundly afterward.
“What’s up?” I ask, proud that my voice comes out steady.
Jess can’t quite meet my eyes. “These guys need to talk to you. They… work for the casino.”
Bullshit.
I’ve been working here almost a year, and I know what casino security looks like. These aren’t the guys who escort drunk tourists to their rooms or deal with card counters. These are the guys who make problems disappear permanently.
“Hello,” I say to the bigger one, forcing that customer service smile I’ve perfected. All plastic politeness hiding the fact that my heart is hammering against my ribs. “Can I help you?”
“You’re Nina Walker?” His voice is gravel and impatience, like I’ve already wasted too much of his time.
“Yes.” The word barely makes it past my lips.
I glance around, hoping someone—anyone—is paying attention to this increasingly tense conversation. But the other waitresses are busy with their tables, and the customers are lost in their own little worlds of temporary Vegas magic.
“What can I do for you?”
