Page 6 of Secrets in the Dark

Our eyes held a moment too long. Electricity shimmered between us—unexpected, unprofessional, undeniable.

She broke contact first, glancing at the wall clock. "I should get back. Val has a strict pre-show ritual."

"Of course."

She started to turn, then paused. "Thanks for the coffee, Roman."

"Anytime, Nova." Her stage name felt strange in my mouth—artificial, like it didn't quite fit her.

After she left, I checked my watch. Twenty minutes remained in my break—enough time to follow up on one nagging question. I accessed the service corridor that ran behind the high-roller rooms, the route Enzo frequently used when avoiding casino crowds. If I timed it right...

Luck favored me. Enzo's distinctive voice drifted from around the corner, low and intense. I slowed, positioning myself near a supply closet, ready to feign legitimate business if discovered.

"Absolutely not," Enzo was saying, his Italian accent thickening with agitation. "Thursday as planned. Petals fall at midnight, not before."

A pause suggested he was listening to someone on the phone.

"The merchandise moves when we decide, not when he gets impatient. Tell him to control himself or find another venue." Another pause. "No. The distraction is already handled. Just make sure your people are in position when the time comes."

Petals. Merchandise. Distraction. Classic coded language. I wished I could record it, but the risk of discovery outweighed potential benefit. Instead, I committed the exchange to memory, backing away silently as Enzo continued his conversation.

My phone buzzed again—Detective Chen requesting confirmation for tomorrow's dead drop. I texted a terseaffirmative, then added:Possible movement Thursday. Code "petals." Recording needed?

Her response came immediately:Avoid detection. Intel only. Warrant pending.

Translation: don't blow your cover for evidence we can't use yet. Our task force remained hamstrung by legal restrictions—frustrating but necessary if we wanted convictions to stick.

I returned to the high-limit area, resuming my position at table eleven. The next three hours passed in a blur of cards, chips, and superficial conversation. I maintained Roman King's affable disinterest while mentally cataloging player connections, patterns, whispered side conversations.

By 2 AM, the high-roller room had thinned considerably. I finished my shift, cashed out, and headed toward the locker room to change before checking the surveillance feeds Aria had arranged access to.

The employee corridors were relatively empty this late. Performers had finished their final shows; most waitstaff had departed. Only the overnight dealers, security, and cleaning crews remained. Perfect conditions for reviewing restricted footage without drawing attention.

The security monitoring alcove—officially restricted but conveniently equipped with a faulty lock I'd "discovered" during month three of my assignment—provided access to select camera feeds. Nothing sensitive enough to expose major criminal activity, but useful for building our case incrementally.

I slipped inside, used my dealer credentials to log into the system (leaving a legitimate digital footprint that wouldn't raise flags), and began scanning archived footage from the service corridors around Nova's dressing room area.

Something about her reaction to my coffee gesture—the tension beneath her polite demeanor—suggested more than new-job jitters. Combined with that predatory follower I'd glimpsed, my instincts warned of potential complications to our operation. If Nova had connections to our targets, I needed to know. If she was in danger, that could create unpredictable variables.

Either scenario warranted investigation.

I located footage from the past twelve hours, focusing on the backstage dressing areas. The Jade Petal's camera coverage was impressive but not absolute—strategic blind spots existed, likely by design rather than oversight. Still, I found what I needed: a shadow moving along the corridor leading to the performers' wing around 1 AM, long after most staff had departed.

The figure moved with deliberate purpose, familiar with the layout, avoiding direct camera angles. Male, average height, dressed in nondescript dark clothing that would blend with both casino patrons and staff. Nothing remarkable except for the careful way he navigated security coverage—the movements of someone who understood surveillance systems.

He paused near what I recognized as Nova's assigned dressing cubicle, removed something from his jacket, then slipped inside. Less than thirty seconds later, he emerged empty-handed and departed via a service exit usually used by custodians.

I rewound, focusing on the brief moment when his hand extended from his sleeve to grasp the doorknob. Frame by frame, I examined the grainy footage until I found it—a tattoo on the ring finger of his right hand.

Enhancing the image revealed an ornate design: a coiled snake. I captured a still frame, transferred it to my phone,and logged out of the system, erasing evidence of my specific searches while preserving the legitimate log-in record. The snake tattoo was distinctive enough to potentially identify our mystery man—if he had connections to known associates or appeared in law enforcement databases.

As I exited the security alcove, a realization crystallized: Nova wasn't just being watched by random admirers. She was being hunted by someone with professional-level surveillance awareness and access to restricted areas.

The question was why. Random target? Personal vendetta? Or connection to our investigation?

All three possibilities complicated an already delicate operation. If she was connected to the Licatas, my interest could compromise my cover. If she was an innocent target, my focus on the primary mission might leave her vulnerable.

I sent the still image to Detective Chen with a terse message:Priority ID requested. Subject accessed restricted areas 0100 hours. Snake tat R. ring finger.

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