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“Understood.”

After both vehicles successfully pass through security, we descend into an underground tunnel, where we are stopped at two more security checkpoints.

Finally, we arrive in a garage. Cillian parks next to us, gets out of his Tahoe, and slides into the backseat next to me.

I scowl at our almost identical outfits. We are both wearing tailored navy suits over white dress shirts. The only difference is the tie—he is wearing one, I am not. Instead, I’ve unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt to combat the heat in this godforsaken hellhole.

“Stop dressing like me,” I mutter. “We look like twin toddlers at our sister’s bat mitzvah.”

“I packed the suit before I knew what you were wearing, you arrogant son of a bitch. Would you rather me change into the board shorts and tie-dye shirt I wore on the plane?”

“You mean the one with the barbecue stains? No thanks. Is everyone in place?”

Cillian radios each of the men, confirming their locations.

Screw our crook’s demand to come alone. I never go anywhere without security. Before Cillian and I even boarded the plane this morning, I had four of my West Coast mercenaries checking into Caesars Palace to begin recon work.

Always, always be prepared. I’d be dead a hundred times over if that were not my life’s motto.

Cillian slides his radio into the inner pocket of his jacket. “We’ve got one on the roof, one at street level, and two walking every floor of Caesars, the Mirage, and the Bellagio looking for Valerie.”

“If shit goes sideways, do not let anyone call for backup, understood? We’ve got enough men, and I don’t want to bring any undue attention to this.” I pull the pistol from my jacket and check the clip.

Cillian nods, then does the same.

I look up. “If you or I are not back at this car by eleven o’clock, we meet back at the jet when the smoke clears. I won’t take off without you, and vice versa.”

“Got it.” Cillian glances at his watch. “I’m meeting with one of our guys in fifteen minutes. Meet you outside the Dungeon at ten?”

“Nine thirty.”

“The email said to meet at ten.”

“I want to throw off our host.”

Cillian nods, then pauses, lingering on my profile.

“What?” I scowl. He always does this.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m about to say.”

My jaw twitches. I look away.

“Valerie was a mercy fuck that you accidentally got pregnant six damn years ago. The only reason you married her was because you knocked her up.”

“I married her to protect my unborn child, Cillian.”

“I’m not talking about Chloe right now. I’m talking about Valerie—the reason we’re here. You need to take a second to do a cost/risk analysis before we go in guns blazing. You haven’t even spoken to her in months. You locked her away, under heavy security?—”

“Because she’s my weakness, Cillian, according to my enemies. Not only was she a target, but she also needed more medical attention than I could give her. She also absolutely hated me. I did what I thought was best for her. And by the way, I’m sick of having this conversation with you. You’ve made yourself and your disdain for Valerie—and my decisions—clear since day one.”

“I don’t like her, Astor.”

“I know.”

“My point to all this is: does anyone need to die tonight—for her? For a woman you barely know and never loved in the first place? Look at everything we’re doing. You’ve got four of your men’s lives at stake, not including mine or yours.”

“I take care of my own, Cillian. I married Valerie; therefore, I take care of her.”

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