The numbers climbed soft red over the door. My hand twitched where it wanted a gun that wasn’t there. I let it. Wanting and needing were two different things.
The elevator chimed once and then slid to a stop.
We all exhaled through our teeth at the same time.
The doors opened onto guns.
Three men. All of them already had pistols drawn, aimed steady at chest height. Suits pressed. Faces blank. No one yelling. No one posturing. Just the silent statement that we can end you beforeyou take a single step.
We didn’t move.
One of them dipped his chin an inch. The guns lowered in a smooth motion, not quite casual. A path opened.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “This way.”
We stepped out.
The penthouse opened ahead like a showpiece. Everything was black and chrome and money. Walls of glass looked out over the city and the line of casinos along the shoreline. The sunlight came in hard, turned the bottles behind the bar into colored glass shards.
Roman Giorlando sat with his back to that view.
High-backed armchair, turned halfway toward the window. He was in shirtsleeves, tie loosened, an old man’s ease over an old predator’s frame. Silver threaded his dark hair. His hands rested easy on the arms of the chair, but nothing about him was actually relaxed.
His eyes were on us before the guards finished stepping aside.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Come in.”
I walked forward until I was a few feet from him and stopped. Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes spread out a little behind me. The closest chairs were low-backed and inconvenient, so I didn’t take them.
“Roman,” I greeted.
He smiled faintly, but it never reached his eyes. “You made quite a fuss to get my attention,” he said. “Let’ssee what this is about.”
Behind me, toward the bar, a glass clinked.
“Blackjack,” a smooth voice said. “Good to see you still upright.”
Vladimir Yegorovich lounged at the bar like he was born there. Pale gray suit tailored sharp, pale eyes lighter than they should’ve been in that face. Silver beard trimmed perfectly. His red tie was undone just enough to look intentional.
He held a lowball glass in one hand. The ice tapped against the crystal when he tilted it.
“Vladimir,” I said. “You still pretending you don’t drink vodka?”
“These days, I drink whatever doesn’t get me killed,” he replied. “Come sit. Have something.”
“I’ll stay on my feet,” I replied.
Valentino, Roman’s eldest, stood a little off to the side, near a low table. Younger, but not soft. Dark hair, suit that fit too well, posture just stiff enough to say he hadn’t earned the right to slouch here yet. His eyes flicked between Roman, Vladimir, and us, taking in how everyone breathed.
Roman gestured to the chair directly across from him. “Sit, Alice.”
I didn’t wince at the name. Not anymore. Only certain people got to use it. People I had history with. Roman was one of them, whether I liked it or not.
I took the chair. It put me facing him, with the bar and my men in my peripheralvision.
Mirage, Spade, Ace, and Snake Eyes drifted in a loose line toward the bar. Vladimir handed them each a drink without asking what they wanted. Mirage accepted first. Spade took his and set it on the counter untouched.
Roman watched all of it, then dragged his gaze back to me.
