Page 1 of Wild Card
ONE
PRESLEY
I hatemornings that start with the words“mandatory meeting.”
Especially when the meeting is with Aria Taylor.
She’s the security director for the Citadel across the Strip—our biggest rival and, rumor has it, the only person who’s ever outsmarted one of our surveillance sweeps. I’m not supposed to admire her for that. But I do.
The Jade Petal’s boardroom smells like money and cologne—clean lines, gold accents, the kind of place meant to remind people they’re never in control. I straighten my tie and glance at the clock. Ten on the dot. I’m punctual to a fault, which gives me approximately thirty seconds to wonder why my pulse is picking up before she even walks through the door.
Then she does.
Aria Taylor in a navy suit that probably costs more than my entire department’s equipment budget. Her hair’s pinned up, but a single strand has escaped near her temple, and all I can think about is how it would feel to tuck it back. Her heels click across the marble floor—sharp, confident, commanding. I can almost feel the temperature in the room rise.
“Presley.” She nods once, voice smooth as velvet but cool as ice.
“Taylor.” I return the greeting, fighting the instinct to smirk. The last time we crossed paths, she caught me tailing one of her pit bosses in the Citadel’s parking garage. She’d leaned close enough to whisper,‘You’ll have to do better than that, Petal.’I’d been thinking about it ever since.
We take our seats at opposite sides of the long glass table. Executives fill the empty chairs between us. Then the lawyers walk in. Odd considering the talk is about a potential joint security protocol for high-roller cross-events. Translation: the two casinos have to pretend to play nice so nobody sues if a VIP gets pickpocketed.
I should be listening. I’m not.
I’m too busy watching the way her pen taps against her notebook, how her eyes flick up to meet mine every few minutes like she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s all precision and poise, but there’s a hint of something else—amusement, maybe? Challenge?
When she finally addresses me directly, it’s like she’s pulling a trigger.
“Presley, your cameras cover the east wing entrances, correct?”
“They do.” I lean back in my chair. “Ninety-six lenses, thermal capable. We don’t rely on luck.”
“Interesting,” she says, arching a brow. “We prefer efficiency over excess.”
A few of the suits chuckle. I almost grin. There it is—the game.
“Well, I guess that’s why your last VIP robbery made the evening news,” I reply casually. The room goes quiet for a second. Her lips curve—half amusement, half warning.
Touché.
She leans forward, and I swear my pulse skips. “Then it’s a good thing we’re meeting, isn’t it? Maybe we can teach each other something.”
There’s no mistaking the double meaning. Everyone else keeps talking, but it feels like the air between us is crackling.
“Let’s get started,” my boss, Vincent Tran, says, folding his hands in front of him. He’s always composed, always calculated. When he smiles, it’s usually because he knows something no one else in the room does. “Thank you all for coming. Especially you, Ms. Taylor. We appreciate the Citadel’s willingness to cooperate.”
Her boss, Miranda Vega, gives a tight nod. “The circumstances warrant it.”
I lean back in my seat and glance across the table at Aria. She’s wearing deep navy today instead of her usual black. Her hair’s still up, but her lipstick’s a little darker. She hasn’t looked at me once since she walked in. Not even when I pulled out her chair like some kind of gentleman-idiot.
Vincent clears his throat. “As you both know, theWeeping Jewelsexhibit has been on display in both of our casinos for the past two months as part of the rotating Vault Treasures Tour. It’s attracted international attention.”
“And international press,” Miranda adds. “Which is why the theft is such a catastrophe.”
Theft?
The Weeping Jewels. Five pieces—rings, a necklace, a brooch, a tiara, and a cuff—passed down from some minor European aristocracy, supposedly cursed. “She who wears them shall weep until her soul dries out,” or something dramatic like that.
We’ve had two security incidents since the exhibit opened. One woman fainted. One man broke his leg in the elevator on the way down from the display.
