They come in clusters. Dealers first, still in their uniforms, looking uncertain. Then the cage workers. The bar staff wipingtheir hands on aprons. Surveillance techs from the second floor, blinking under the bright lights of the main room.
Kitchen staff in whites. Cleaners. Maintenance. The night-shift security detail, broad men in dark suits who look at Viktor and then at me and try to work out what's happening.
They gather in the space between the blackjack pit and the main bar. There are eighty, maybe ninety people, some of them talking in low voices. Most of them silent, reading the room. They know something is wrong. A casino doesn't close on a Tuesday night for a private function. There is no private function and they know it.
Cath is near the back. I find her without looking for her. She's standing with her arms crossed, her face tight, and I can see the tension in her shoulders from thirty feet away. She's been carrying this for months and tonight is the end of it, one way or another. She knows her part.
Viktor's four remaining trusted men are positioned at the corners of the floor. The independent contractors — six of them, hired through a private security firm with no connection to the casino — are covering the service exits, the loading dock, the staff entrance on the east side.
Nobody leaves until we say so.
I step forward. The talking stops.
"Thank you for your patience," I say. "This won't take long. We've identified a number of staff members who have been engaged in activity that violates the terms of their employment. Those individuals will be terminated tonight, effective immediately."
Silence.
"When your name is called, you will hand over your credentials and you will be escorted from the building. Any personal effects in your locker will be forwarded to you. Youwill not return to any Novikov property. Your final pay will be processed by the end of the week."
I nod to Viktor.
He unfolds the list. His voice is level, clear, pitched to carry across the floor without effort. He reads the first name.
"Ryan Beck."
A beat. Then movement in the middle of the group. Beck is mid-thirties, thin. He doesn't say a word. His face drains of color and he walks forward with the mechanical step of someone whose body is doing something his brain hasn't agreed to yet. Two of Viktor's men flank him. They walk him to the doors. Kozlov steps aside. Beck goes through. The doors close.
It’s clean and quick. Everyone watches.
The room shifts. I can feel the change. Every person on that floor is running the same calculation:Is my name on that list?
Viktor reads the next name. Andris Volkov. He’s one of the dealers Theo flagged first. Volkov steps forward immediately, which tells me he's been expecting this. His face is blank. He hands over his badge without being asked and walks to the door. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't look at anyone.
The next name. Another dealer.
Janine from the cage is next. She starts crying before she reaches the door. Her hands are shaking so badly she can't unpin her name badge. One of Viktor's independents takes it from her, gently, and guides her toward the exit with a hand at her elbow. Janine was being pressured, same as Cath. I feel sorry for her but the worst thing I can do is play favorites now.
I don't enjoy this. There's no satisfaction in watching people lose their jobs, even people who were cheating me. These are people I've employed, some of them for years. Some of them have children. Some of them were scared and made baddecisions and the people who scared them aren't standing on this floor tonight.
But the operation is the operation and it doesn't work if I start making exceptions based on how I feel about it.
Torres goes next. She walks with her head down and her hands clenched at her sides and she's breathing fast through her nose.
Viktor calls another name. Then another. The group on the floor is thinning around the edges, the remaining staff drawing closer together, relief and unease running through them in equal measure.
Relief that their name hasn't been called. Unease at what they're witnessing. The names keep coming. Runners. Support staff. A bartender who'd been passing information.
"Cath Beresford."
Cath's head snaps up. She's good. She's been standing at the back with her arms crossed and her face set in the expression of a woman who cannot believe what she's watching and the shock that crosses her features now is convincing enough that several of the staff around her turn to stare. Cath, who has been here for decades. Cath, who trained half the dealers on this floor. Cath, who everyone trusts.
"You can't be serious," she says. Her voice carries across the floor. Angry. Betrayed. She pitches it exactly right.
"Ms Beresford," Viktor says. "Your credentials, please."
She pulls her lanyard over her head and throws it on the floor. The slap of the plastic badge against the marble echoes in the silence. She walks toward the door with her shoulders rigid and her chin up and she doesn't look at me. The staff part for her. Someone mutters something. Someone else puts their hand over their mouth.
She goes through the doors and they close behind her.
