Chapter 5 Episode 5

I toss back the rest of the tumbler’s contents and slam the glass down on a nearby table. “When I find that f*****g ‘key witness’and thank them myself for the opportunity.” Because that’s what this all boils down to. I have everything around me, this glittering empire of dreams and diamond dust, because some snot-nosed kid lied on the standfifteen years ago. I shake my head before I can sink into the usual storm of rage and angst over how it’s been so long and I still haven’t found her.“Give me the report,” I order. Bambi sighs and pulls out her tablet and flips to a screen where the Main Floor layout is outlined in blue. Every machine islabeled according to its placement, with a running tracker of wins and losses indicating whether it’s “hot” or “cold” by thesecond. If a machine stays hot for too long, we’re alerted of a glitch so we can pull it, fix it, and minimize our losses. And if it’s cold for too long… “What’s our coldest?” I peer at the screen. Bambi taps on a section next to the pit, and an enlarged window zeroes in on the machines. “Looks like Medusa’s Wrath. Onlytwo payouts in the last hour. This one on the end has been cold for…” She frowns. “Six hours. That’s odd. Want me to call intech support?” I shake my head. “Not yet. Funnel the wins to that machine and we’ll pull later. No one’s gonna touch something that icy.” Bambi nods her agreement and makes the necessary adjustments. She funnels additional funds to the glitched-up machine. With that settled, I start another circuit of the casino floor. I’m only vaguely aware of Bambi rattling off a To-Do list as wewander. Bambi’s intended praise still swirls in my head. Tolya would be proud. Would he, though? I have no idea how Tolya would have run things. He never got the chance to even try. Our old man was stillaround calling the shots and ruling with an iron fist when Tolya was arrested for a murder he never committed. Everything hinged on the testimony of an eight-year-old little girl who swore she saw my brother gun down LVPD DetectiveMichael Little. To this day I can’t shake the feeling that someone, somehow, skewed the facts so my brother would never seethe light of day. But I can’t put my finger on which one. Fact: Michael Little was fatally shot inside a warehouse. Fact: That warehouse, unfortunately, was owned by the Zakrevsky Corporation. Fact: The key witness was there. Fact: Tolya was nowhere near the warehouse when it all went down. Today’s failed appeal was to establish that last fact to an undeniable level. No fewer than eight witnesses prepared written andnotarized testimonies to having either seen or been with Tolya that night, clear across the city and far away from the warehousefive miles east outside Vegas. But Judge Cartwell simply stated that the little girl who “saw it all” held more validity than all those witnesses combined. My fists clench. I need to get to my office before I punch something and start a scene we don’t want splashed all over socialmedia. So I quicken my pace, Bambi close behind, her nose buried in whatever stats are rolling across her tablet screen. My own stats are rolling in my head, alongside the list of facts that won’t let me sleep. The number of innocent menincarcerated in the state of Nevada. The number of innocent men who never get exonerated. The odds of me ever finding that witness. I step out of the pit and turn toward the wall where the elevator to my office is hidden behind a camouflage panel. I make amental note to check on the Medusa’s Wrath slot machines⁠— And then, suddenly, I’m doused in coffee and champagne. I very, very slowly lower my victory fists. The avenging angel flicks champagne off his arms as he stares at me. It’s not quite a glare, but he’s not laughing, either.Droplets cling to the perfectly manicured, just-this-side-of-shadow beard, and the way the light hits him makes them sparkle. I should be apologizing, but I can’t stop staring at how tragically beautiful he truly is. I should really be apologizing. “I-I am… so sorry!” I frantically glance around for napkins and only find a used wad of them on the machine next to mine. Ew,no. “Really, I⁠—” “Have no consideration for your surroundings?” If I thought his face was gorgeous, his deep timbre has officially made my insides melt. It takes me a moment to register the actual words he said. When they do, they hit deep and I flinch. I muster an embarrassed little smile. Broken glass crunches under his feet when he steps to the side, and I flinch again. He towers over me, a good head and a half taller at the very least. Even stained with bubbly, his expensive tuxedo screams“powerful,” and the contours of the body beneath it underscore that word times a hundred. Dark hair falls into his eyes when helooks back at me again, and I suck in a breath at the way his smoky gray eyes seem to glow in the casino’s lighting. Those eyes flick to the paper clenched in my lowered fist. His brow arches as realization dawns on him. “Jackpot win?” That vacuum on my lungs threatens to start up again as I slowly nod. “Yeah,” comes out more like a squeak than an actual word. “Congratulations.” He chuckles. “Now, you can afford a new tux for me.” I blanch. “Breathe. I’m kidding.” He accepts a cloth napkin that a stunning woman with dark curls hands him and pats himself down. Iinstantly recognize her from the town car when I first came in. Oh, good Lord. I’ve doused her husband in alcohol. She’s doing her absolute best to hold back the laughter as she nods to someone in the pit and helps my splash zone victim daboff the remaining liquid from his sleeve. I’m actually envious of her. I volunteer myself to be the one to feel his biceps throughthe fabric. I give myself a subtle little shake. Focus, Clara. “Really, is there anything I can do?” I ask. “I feel terrible.” He waves me off. “Don’t worry about it. Just enjoy the rest of your evening, and try to aim your bubbly next time.” His facegrows suddenly serious. “Any more champagne showers in here, and I’ll have to call Security.” I almost gasp—but then he winks at me. Then he saunters off, gorgeous wife/girlfriend/escort/whoever trailing close behind him. She suddenly stops. Turns around. And stares at me. Her eyes flick to the flashing graphics on the slot machine I’m standing in front of. She glances down at a tablet tucked on herarm, then back up at me. She looks shocked. And then the most impish grin I’ve ever seen on a human being spreads across her face. She wiggles her fingers at me in a playful “goodbye,” and in a strange move, also blows me a kiss. Then she spins on herelegant stilettos and sashays away, albeit not exactly in the same direction as the Champagne Angel. Odd, but who am I to judgecouples in Vegas? Lord knows I’ve got my own relationship problems. I uncrumple the paper from my death-grip and read the jackpot total again. And again. And again. I may have a truckload of problems in my life right now, but money is no longer one of them. I nearly trip over my own heels in my mad dash for the cashier’s counter. A few curious people follow me with their eyes and Irealize I need to be as minimally conspicuous as possible until I get out of this building. Hell, until I get it all deposited in thebank and take Willow far, far away from this place. “I’d like to cash out, please.” I smile at the middle-aged cashier wearing the casino’s signature gold referee uniform and amatching gold chain on her reading glasses. She seems nice, trustworthy. She returns my smile warmly. That smile immediately plummets into a look of pure shock when she scans the ticket. “I—ah… Are you sure?” she asks with asmall, nervous laugh. “I’m very sure.” My fingers clutch my bag until my knuckles turn white. She clicks a few things on her keyboard, glancing at me every five seconds. It’s difficult to tell what she’s thinking. Her facekeeps switching between different expressions depending on what she’s looking at—the computer screen, the ticket, or me. “Okay, I’ll just need to see your driver’s license, and…” She turns and dips for something under the counter, then sets a stackof papers in front of me. “I’ll need you to fill these forms out. Top to bottom, please. If you have any questions, just ask.” I try to not look or feel as overwhelmed as I suddenly feel. “All this?” She snorts, but it’s all in good nature. “All this for all that. You will also need to make sure you file a W2-G when tax seasonrolls around, and be aware that all winnings are typically subject to a twenty-five percent tax rate⁠—” “Twenty-five percent?” I blurt out. A few people glance our way. I immediately duck my face behind my hand.