Page 4 of Secrets in the Dark

"First round's on me," Val declared, slipping onto a high stool and signaling the bartender. "You survived rehearsal without dying. That's worth celebrating."

That was when I saw him.

Across the bar, a tall man leaned against polished wood, one elbow balanced with casual ease. Black hair, a day of stubble, broad shoulders filling a black vest. Even at rest he radiated a contained readiness, like a predator perfectly comfortable in his territory. His eyes—warm amber, sharply observant—swept the room until they met mine.

The instant our gazes locked, a current snapped between us. I should have looked away, reminded myself of threats that stalked me, of the danger in being noticed by anyone. Instead, I held his stare. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

Heat flooded my cheeks; I turned back to Val, who watched with undisguised amusement.

"Roman King," she supplied without my asking. "Dealer at the high-limit tables. Started a few weeks ago." She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Gorgeous, isn't he? And that intensity—like he sees right through you."

"I'm not here for...distractions," I murmured, lifting the drink she pushed toward me.

"Vegas is built on distraction, mi reina. Even shadows need a little light." She tipped her glass against mine. "Just keep your secrets and enjoy the view. God knows we could all use some pleasure in this glittering prison."

She was more accurate than she knew. My danger wasn't gamblers or flirtation. It was a faceless predator who caught momentary jacket changes behind closed doors. Trusting anyone—especially someone whose eyes missed nothing—could be fatal.

When Val departed and the bar emptied, I navigated the maze back to my dressing cubicle. The laminated badge bounced against my ribs with each step, a constant reminder of the fiction I lived. Nova Sinclair. Ghost girl. A woman who didn't exist before three days ago and might not exist a month from now.

I opened the cubicle door—then froze.

Centered on the makeup counter stood a crystal vase cradling a single pink rose. Beside it lay a cream note card identical to the ones in my office and bedroom.

Hands trembling, I unfolded it.

Welcome to the show, Nova.

Chapter Two

Roman

High rollers never looked at dealers' faces.

This truth had served me well through eleven months of undercover work at the Jade Petal. While players fixated on cards, chips, and cocktail waitresses' cleavage, I could observe every nuance of their behavior without seeming to pay attention. The perfect surveillant—invisible despite standing in plain sight.

I adjusted my cuffs as I prepared for another night at table eleven, the most prestigious high-stakes poker table in the casino. The dealer's uniform—tailored black vest over crisp white shirt, gold Jade Petal pin at the lapel—felt like another tactical disguise, not much different from the desertcamo I'd worn during intelligence operations overseas. Different battlefield, same skills: observe, assess, remain invisible.

"King!" Mickey Callahan, tonight's pit boss, snapped his fingers as he passed. "Table eleven. The Zhang party arrived early. Usual comp package, times three."

I nodded, my mind slipping into Roman King's persona: competent, discreet, mildly amused by wealth. Nothing like Detective Roman Kane, who spent off-hours reviewing surveillance logs and coordinating with a multi-agency task force working to dismantle the Licata crime syndicate's Vegas operation.

Before moving to the floor, I focused my thoughts on this morning's briefing with Detective Aria Chen. Her voice echoed in my head:"Two years of groundwork, Kane. Two years of wire, CCTV, and financial surveillance. We need to catch them with goods in hand—physical ledgers, the thumb drive, and the cash in motion. Anything less, and their lawyers will eat the DA for breakfast."

I understood her urgency. The case against the Licatas had dragged on for years, hampered by intimidated witnesses and corrupt officials. Eleven months ago, I'd gone under as Roman King to get close to their money-laundering operation at the Jade Petal. We suspected significant cash moved through the high-roller rooms, but suspicion couldn't secure RICO warrants. We needed evidence solid enough to survive a federal courtroom.

As I took my position at table eleven, I scanned the main floor. Saturday night at the Jade Petal meant capacity crowds, perfect cover for illicit activities. My gaze paused on Enzo Grimaldi, head of security, greeting Gianna Bianchi near the VIP elevator banks.

Officially, Gianna was the casino's VIP liaison—a glorified concierge for the ultra-wealthy. Unofficially, we had strong reason to believe she was the Licatas' conduit for moving laundered cash out of the country. Tall, ice-blonde, perpetually adorned in designer dresses that showcased both wealth and a figure maintained by ruthless discipline, she greeted Enzo with the easy familiarity of longtime associates.

Enzo bent to kiss her cheeks, European-style, their body language suggesting something beyond professional courtesy. Interesting. I'd noted their connection before, but tonight seemed different—more tension between them, a whispered exchange that made Gianna's smile falter momentarily.

I logged the observation mentally, knowing better than to reach for my phone on the floor. Details like these, while seemingly insignificant, often formed critical patterns when assembled with other evidence.

Mr. Zhang and his two colleagues approached my table, and I slipped into performance mode—the subtle theater of high-stakes gambling that kept whales returning to lose millions. For the next forty minutes, I dealt hands, tracked betting patterns, and monitored side conversations in Mandarin that my players assumed I couldn't understand.

Nothing useful emerged—just business tycoons enjoying Vegas excess away from Beijing's watchful eyes.

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