Page 13 of Secrets in the Dark

What was she hiding? And why did Tommy Lace seem to be surveilling her?

These questions still haunted me when my alarm blared at 7:30 a.m.

The high-limit room hummed with subdued wealth.

Everything in this exclusive enclave was designed to whisper rather than shout: the hand-knotted silk carpets that swallowed footsteps, the cashmere-upholstered chairs, thecustom lighting that flattered aging complexions and made everyone look ten years younger. Even the air smelled different—sandalwood and subtle citrus instead of the manufactured floral scent pumped through the main casino floor.

I adjusted my cuffs as I took my position at table three. High-limit dealers wore bespoke suits instead of the standard casino uniform. The subtle difference marked us as extensions of the luxury experience rather than service staff.

My table remained empty for the first twenty minutes of my shift—normal for early afternoon. The real action wouldn't start until evening. This lull, however, provided the perfect opportunity to observe.

Enzo Grimaldi made his usual security sweep, nodding brusquely as he passed. My peripheral vision tracked his routine—the careful inspection of camera angles, the brief conversation with the VIP hostess, the subtle adjustment of his earpiece. Standard procedure, yet something about his movements seemed heightened today. Extra vigilance. Extra attention to details.

He paused at the entrance to whisper something to the security guard, and I caught the flash of a tablet screen—security rotation schedules, from the glimpse I managed. Unusual to review those on the floor.

My observations were interrupted by a waft ofChanel N°5and the distinct click of stiletto heels.

"Roman King." Gianna Bianchi's voice carried the musical cadence of Milan overlaid with American private schooling. "Just the dealer I was hoping to find."

She slid onto the velvet-upholstered chair across from me, an elegant vision in winter white. Mid-forties, maintained with the fanatical discipline of the European elite, she'd builther reputation as the Jade Petal's premiere VIP liaison. She handled the casino's highest rollers with the deferential touch that separated millions from their bearers.

And, according to our intelligence, facilitated the Licata organization's most significant financial transactions.

"Ms. Bianchi." I inclined my head with appropriate deference. "A pleasure, as always."

"I've told you to call me Gianna." Her smile revealed perfect veneers. "You've been with us nearly a year now. Surely we've moved beyond formalities."

I returned her smile with calculated warmth. "Old habits. How may I assist you today?"

"Mr. Al-Khalifa and his associates from Dubai are arriving at the Jade Petal tomorrow. They've requested you specifically for their private game." She tapped manicured nails against the green baize. "Eight p.m. in the Dragon's Crown lounge."

The Dragon's Crown—the Jade Petal's most exclusive venue, accessible only by private elevator and key card. Also, according to our surveillance, the likely location for Friday's money transfer.

"I'm flattered," I replied, keeping my expression neutral while my pulse quickened. "Though I believe Mickey already assigned me to the main room tomorrow night."

"I've spoken with Mr. Callahan. The schedule has been adjusted." She reached into her clutch, extracting a jade-colored access card embossed with the Dragon's Crown logo. As she slid it across the table, her finger lingered against mine a fraction too long. "For convenience. The lounge requires special clearance."

"Thank you."

"I'll be hosting, of course." Her eyes held mine with seductive intent. "Perhaps we could discuss the arrangementsover drinks after your shift? The client has...specialized preferences."

The invitation wasn't subtle. Gianna had been circling me for months, her interest likely a mixture of professional assessment and personal pursuit. I'd maintained careful distance, but tonight presented an opportunity I couldn't ignore—access to her private information.

"The Lotus Bar? Nine-thirty?" I suggested.

"Perfect." She rose, but before departing, set her crystal chip case on the table. "Hold this for a moment, would you? I need to make a call."

She stepped away, phone to her ear, leaving the ornate case beside the dealer's tray. Deliberate? Possibly. A test? Maybe.

I maintained my position, hands visible on the table, but allowed my sleeve to brush against the case as I straightened my cuffs. The ridged crystal surface collected oils like glass—a perfect medium for fingerprints.

When she returned moments later, I handed the case back with appropriate respect. She accepted it with a knowing smile that suggested she'd left it intentionally—though not for the reasons I'd used it.

"Until tonight," she murmured, departing in a cloud of expensive perfume.

I waited five minutes before requesting a brief break. In the employee restroom, I carefully pressed a lift strip against my sleeve where it had contacted her case, then sealed the impression in an evidence pouch. Gianna's fingerprints—our first concrete physical connection for the case, beyond circumstantial surveillance.

It was a small victory, but in intelligence work, cases were built on such incremental gains.

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