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“I can do a lap,” Fox offers. “Get a lay of the land? If that’s helpful.”

I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. I nod. “Go for it. I’ll go—” I tip my head at the bar. “No reason to rush.”

Fox nods back, and it’s only when he lets go of my arm that I realize how firmly he’d been holding on to me. Not that I mind, I think, taking careful steps across the thick carpet toward the marble edge of the bar. A few hours in and my feet are starting to feel the burn in these heels.

There’s an empty seat just to the right—a leather-cushioned stool with a low back—that I head for. The bartender—a woman maybe around my age in a tight-fitting black dress and bold red lip—nods acknowledgment as I slide in, but defers to a group of men in shirtsleeves around the curve of the bar who’ve clearly been waiting.

I nod back and lean on an elbow. No rush, I remind myself. The bar’s not huge, and because it’s right in the center, I can see a good amount of the room just from my seat. Almost immediately, my eyes find Fox, and I follow him as he strolls easily around, hands in his pockets, looking for all the world like just another good-looking, red-blooded young guy out for a good time. And on the relative calm of the bar area, with the soft music playing and the lights low and nothing to do but be patient for a moment or two, my mind can’t help but wander. Can’t help but think what it’d be like to be here for real, on a date, as a couple.

You could do worse than Fox.

Than Felix. Felix and Bella. Out for the night. We’d have a couple drinks, play a couple games, have a couple more drinks, laugh and flirt and then probably stumble back to our hotel room, tug off his shirt and slip off my dress and⁠—

Jesus, Tink, I think. Focus.

The bartender returns, thank God, as I push Fox’s form to my peripheral vision.

Still, says another voice in another part of my head. You could do worse⁠—

“Could I get a glass of the…” A woman—a girl, really, maybe my age—in a sleek silver dress has slithered up into the bartender’s line of vision, blocking me from sight as she squints down at the wine list. “Chattow mutton?” she tries. Then points. “This one.”

The bartender tips her head at the wine list. “Chateau Mouton Rothschild,” she says. And I don’t speak French, but I can tell from the way she says the name of the wine that it’s a fancy one. As in, too fancy for this girl. “We only offer that by the bottle.”

Silver Dress gives her the sweetest smile. “I’m here with Dominic. Dominic Agnetti.” She tilts her head, her long hair brushing over her shoulders. “He said I could put it on his tab?”

Immediately, the bartender’s whole demeanor changes. “Of course,” she says, brisk but polite. In one smooth motion, she sidesteps to the POS and makes a few taps.

“Great.” Silver Dress beams. “Do I need his account number for that, or…”

The bartender shakes her head, face lit up from the screen. “For him, no.” She punches one last button. “You’re good. Let me get that for you.” She whisks away and returns what seems like seconds later with a gleaming, wide wineglass, neatly poured half-full with red. “There you go.”

The girl in silver smiles and slips away, and the bartender turns to me.

“What can I get you?”

I swallow and lift my chin. “I…”

Think, Tink. Think.

But I don’t have to. I don’t have to think, because months of living in disguise, years of being on the run, on my own, have programmed my instincts to work faster than my mind. I hear myself speak the words before I even register what I’m doing.

“I’d like the same, actually,” I say. “But on Michelangelo Darling’s tab, if you don’t mind.”

It’s a dice roll. A big bet. All the chips on six.

But it works. It works.

The bartender nods. “Of course.”

Thirty seconds later and she’s back with an identical giant glass of wine.

“Thanks.” I gingerly accept it and take a careful sip. It’s good, I guess—I don’t know shit about wine. But it tastes like victory all the same. Because I did it. Part of it, anyway. I proved that whoever’s claiming to be Michelangelo Darling, whoever’s using his name to buy racing dogs and run up betting tabs and do God knows what else at this casino, is here. Or has been here. Alive. Operational.

Real.

I take another sip, which goes down smooth. Swallow it. Clear my throat.

“Excuse me⁠—”