Chapter 3 – Kieran
The Mirage Grand is built on desperation—layered in neon and cologne, rigged for loss disguised as luck.
Up here, on the security balcony above the VIP floor, it’s quieter. Not quiet, never that, but muffled—filtered through glass tinted to keep the players in their fantasy. The scent doesn’t rise this far either, but I remember it: perfume that smells expensive and fake. Whiskey poured over cheap bravado. The sour edge of sweat that clings to losers.
My vantage point is perfect.
I stand half in shadow, tucked behind a column just left of the surveillance hub. No security guards around. No cameras pointed this way. The men who know I’m here don’t ask why. They know better.
Below, Tony Rizzi holds court at the craps table like he built the damn place. His laughter rips through the din—raw, sharp, ugly.
He’s surrounded by smoke, flesh, and arrogance. The girls on his arms don’t bother pretending to care about the game. Their job is to drape over him, laugh on cue, look good while the chips stack high. He hands one a fifty. She slips it into her bra and gives him a smile that’s more business than pleasure.
He rolls the dice again. Wins. Of course he does.
A dealer nods. A man in a suit claps him on the back. Everyone down there wants to be close to the man they think has power. They don’t know he’s a walking carcass.
I touch the grip of the silenced pistol tucked beneath my jacket. Thumb rests just over the safety. I could do it from here. Clean line. Single shot to the base of the skull. No witnesses, no noise.
But I don’t move.
You don’t slit a throat in public. You starve it. Quiet. Precise.
The gun isn’t for tonight. Tonight is for remembering.
My pulse shifts, and the past forces its way back in.
Warehouse. Rain on the windows, leaking through cracks in the ceiling. Dust and rotting wood. My brother kneeling in the middle of the floor, hands tied behind his back. His face swollen. Blood down his shirt.
Benedetto.
He was younger. Softer in the places I’d already hardened. Trusted the wrong men. Trusted me.
I was up in the rafters. Watching. Frozen. Waiting for the perfect moment.
Rizzi entered like he owned the world. Jacket sharp, tie loose, smirk wide. He looked down at Benedetto and said one line.
“Deal fell through. Not my fault.”
Then he walked.
No hesitation. No flare of conscience.
I could’ve stopped him. Pulled the trigger. Put a bullet through the back of his head and ended it right there.
But I didn’t. I hesitated for a second, and I lost my brother.
Rizzi disappeared into the dark, and Benedetto bled out with his mouth open.
Back in the present, I exhale through my nose. Count the seconds until my pulse slows again.
Below, Rizzi downs his whiskey, smashes the glass on the table, and barks for another. A waitress scurries over. He slaps her on the ass as she leaves.
He’s even fatter than he was then. Richer. More reckless.
Benedetto died for a shipment Rizzi rerouted and blamed on ghosts. The Collective rewarded him. I bled for it.
But tonight isn’t for justice.
It’s for control.
I watch the way Rizzi moves, how often he touches his chips, how many times he adjusts his sleeves. He has tells—little ones. He’s anxious. Maybe paranoid. But he hides it well behind the swagger.
The man’s survived this long because he’s careful. Or because the people around him are disposable.
But I’m not the same as the ones he’s burned.
I’ve already crawled through the wreckage he left. Already buried my brother, burned my own name, and started building the weapon that’ll end him.
Her name is Sylvara D’Agostino.
I check my phone.
The message came at dawn.
Fine.
One word. Sent after sunrise. Something must have happened. She was probably attacked or threatened. I’ve seen the way her instincts twitch before danger steps into the room. She doesn’t say fine unless she’s already bleeding somewhere.
And still, she said yes.
Which means the plan is in motion. Which means Rizzi has no idea how close the noose is.
I slide the phone back into my coat. My hand stays near the gun, but I make no move to draw it.
Revenge is a process.
I’ll tear Rizzi down piece by piece. Strip him of his protections. Dig through his deals. And when I’m finished—
When he’s blind and desperate, clawing for a way out—
Then I’ll give him the same mercy he gave my brother.
None.
One second I’m alone. The next, crimson silk sweeps into the edge of my vision—liquid fabric, skin-tight over her hips, cut low enough to weaponize. Her heels don’t click against the marble floor. They whisper. Like she doesn’t walk—she arrives.
Gia Lucchesi.
She leans one shoulder against the railing beside me like we’ve been standing together all night.
“Watching Rizzi,” she says, voice velvet-wrapped poison, “or fantasizing?”
I don’t move. Don’t show a damn thing.
Gia doesn’t do casual. She’s not here for nostalgia.
“Surveillance,” I answer. “Keeping tabs. Family business.”
Her smile is slow and serrated. “Of course. Such a loyal soldier.”
She circles me. Slow, fluid. A predator studying the wounded.
Gia was never just an ex. She’s legacy. Veyra royalty. Niece to the old man. He raised her to be sharper than any of his sons. She knew how to read a room before she could legally vote—and how to weaponize what she found inside it before her first high heel ever hit marble.
She stops behind me, close enough that her perfume curls into my throat. Something floral. Expensive. Faint enough to feel like a fingerprint on my pulse.
“You always liked to watch,” she murmurs.
I keep my gaze locked on Rizzi. He hasn’t noticed us. He’s still drowning in smoke and attention, laughing at his own luck.
Gia exhales a laugh, soft but hollow. “So what’s the angle, Kieran? Because I know you. This—” she gestures vaguely toward the casino floor “—isn’t your rhythm. You’re waiting.”
“For what?” I ask.
She taps one lacquered nail against the railing. “For the moment someone looks away long enough to slit their throat.”
I finally look at her.
She looks flawless, but the eyes—those haven’t changed. She’s already thinking ten steps ahead. Calculating damage, payout, leverage. Always was better at chess than me.
“The family sees everything,” she says. “Even what you think you hide.”
I let that sit a second before I answer. “Then they already know Rizzi’s cancer. I’m just mapping the tumor.”
She arches a brow, amused. “You’re not a surgeon, darling. You’re a blade. Don’t cut what you can’t cauterize.”
Her fingers drift toward my chest like she might press against my heart, just to see if it’s still there. I catch her wrist midair. Not hard. Just enough to remind her who I’ve become.
She tilts her head. “Still touchy.”
“You still fish for weak spots.”
She grins. “And you still have them.”
We stand like that—too close, too poised—for just a second too long. She’s enjoying this. The dance. The danger. Maybe even the memory.
But Gia doesn’t linger without a reason.
She reaches into her clutch and pulls out a burner phone. Slim. Black. Unregistered.
She slides it into my hand and closes my fingers around it.
“For when you remember who owns you.”
Then she turns, heels whispering again across the tile, and vanishes into the casino haze.
I stare after her, grip tightening around the burner. It feels heavier than it should. Like it carries more than just her number. Like it’s ticking.
She always knew how to find the wound. And twist.
My stomach coils. My instincts scream.
Gia didn’t come to flirt.
She came to warn me.
Maybe to mark me.
And now she knows I’m circling Rizzi.
If I give her more—if I tell her about Sylvara, the forgery, the plan—there’s a chance this gets sanctioned. A chance we’re not alone in the kill.
But Sylvara becomes bait.
And if I keep it to myself, Gia turns into a variable I can’t control. A blade I can’t see until it’s already in my back.
I pocket the phone.
I already know I won’t use it.
But I’ll never stop checking if it’s calling me.
I glance down one last time.
Rizzi’s still laughing.
You never stop being owned.
You just stop pretending it doesn’t burn.