Chapter 1
RILEY
Numbers don't lie. People do.
Numbers are honest. Reliable. They tell you exactly what’s going on without hidden agendas or that kind of smile that promises one thing while delivering another.
People, on the other hand... they lie for all sorts of reasons.
Out of fear of getting caught. Out of a need to seem stronger than they really are.
To get what they want—or to hold onto things they should have let go of a long time ago.
Sometimes they lie because the truth is too complicated.
Or too uncomfortable. And sometimes, it’s just too dangerous.
I’ve been watching it happen my entire life.
I’ve seen my father smile at men while withholding information worth millions. I’ve seen security being promised while new risks were already being calculated in the background. Countless promises, broken over and over again.
And then there’s me, right in the middle of it.
The most closely monitored project in his empire.
I grew up in a damn control system, so meticulously calculated that even my mistakes were probably planned years in advance.
Because Richard Blackstone believes he has everything under control—my life, my choices, my future.
And maybe he’s even right.
I mean... I’m twenty-seven years old, working as the Head of IT Security in his casino, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve done exactly what my father told me to do. I’m sure he means well. He wants to protect me because I’m "his girl," as he always says.
And yet, my life just doesn’t feel... like it’s actually mine. I mean, I have social media. Women my age should be out partying on the weekends, maybe even getting married, but they definitely shouldn't be virgins anymore.
But my life is different. Not a single friend, no wild parties, not a single mistake large enough to make for a funny story. Not a single moment that truly felt like mine.
It is an irony in itself, really, when you consider that I grew up in Sin City. But in Las Vegas, only others sin—not me.
I learned early on what it means to be a good daughter. A good daughter listens to her father. A good daughter fulfills her duties. And my current duty is to take a closer look at the suspicious guy at blackjack table number seven.
I lean closer to the flickering monitor. My eyes burn from the bluish light. Camera four provides a sharp close-up of table seven.
The guy is shattering every statistic. He’s been winning every single hand for two damn hours. No exceptions. By now, a mountain of plastic chips worth exactly 1.3 million dollars is piled up in front of him.
I zoom in on his face. He’s wearing a blue suit. His shirt is open at the collar. Strands of silver streak his hair at the temples. His features look as if they were chiseled from hard stone. I have to admit to myself—he is outrageously handsome. His composure has an almost magnetic effect.
But that cannot matter. Handsome men are never faithful; my father has drummed that into me countless times. In moments like these, I inevitably wonder if Richard Blackstone was also speaking about himself before my mother died.
I push my chair back. The roll of the wheels echoes through the empty server room. I pull my stretched-out hoodie over my head and toss it carelessly onto the leather sofa. My sweatpants land right next to it.
I pull the garment bag from the narrow locker in the corner and slip into the green evening gown.
The smooth fabric clings tight to my skin.
I step in front of the wall mirror next to the door.
My green eyes stare back at me from the reflection.
I pull out my hair tie, letting my red hair fall over my shoulders.
I grab my lipstick and trace the contours of my lips.
Finally, I force my feet into the black stilettos.
I leave the control room. The elevator takes me to the ground floor.
The doors slide open silently, and my gaze sweeps across the glittering world of the Onyx Grand.
The hum of the slot machines vibrates in the soles of my feet; the scent of expensive gin hangs in the air.
I push through a group of tipsy tourists while my heels sink deep into the plush carpet.
The green sequined dress scratches at my thighs.
I inconspicuously tug the fabric down. I hate this get-up.
I hate the stares of the men glued to my neckline.
My realm is three floors down in a windowless server room.
There, I wear oversized hoodies and drink lukewarm coffee from paper cups.
There, I am the ruler over millions of data streams.
I balance on my heels through the labyrinth of the casino, heading purposefully toward table seven. Five players sit there in a semicircle. Four of them are uninteresting—sweating businessmen with loosened ties. The fifth man is my problem.
In the last two hours, he has cleared more money than anyone ever has in such a short period. My surveillance software found no name, even though the cameras scanned his face a hundred times. No hits in international databases. No criminal record. No known aliases.
A ghost in a tailored suit. He plays blackjack, but he doesn't follow the usual patterns of a card counter. He bets high when the odds are against him and wins anyway. He loses small amounts on purpose to feed the algorithms of my cameras and avoid suspicion. He is playing with my system.
But I won’t allow that. My father does not tolerate parasitic bloodsuckers in his casino.
I slide onto the empty barstool right next to him.
"Good evening," I say, addressing the dealer as I slide a bundle of banknotes across the felt. "Change, please."
She nods and slides colorful chips over to me. I stack them with a fluid motion.
I feel his gaze on my bare shoulder, though he doesn't turn his head in my direction. He is watching me from the corner of his eye.
"A new player," he murmurs. His voice sounds like a deep hum. "Are you bringing me luck?"
I turn my head toward him and put on a practiced smile.
"It doesn't seem like you need it," I reply, pointing to his massive mountain of chips. "Besides, I rarely rely on luck." I tap my index finger on my tokens. "I prefer mathematics."
An amused twitch flickers at the corners of his mouth. He slides two black chips into the betting field. Twenty thousand dollars.
"I can understand that. Mathematics is predictable," he counters while the dealer distributes the cards. "People are not."
An open eight of spades lands in front of me. A queen of hearts follows. Eighteen points.
In front of him lie a seven of clubs and a five of spades. Twelve points. The house’s open card is a nine.
He barely perceptibly raises his hand. He refuses a card.
It makes no sense. With an open nine, the house usually draws a face card and wins.
The dealer reveals her hole card. A three of clubs. She draws again. A ten of hearts. Twenty-two points. She has busted.
He wins again.
I take a martini from the approaching waitress. The cool glass fogs under my fingers. I sip it. The alcohol burns on my tongue.
"You play risky," I remark casually.
Now he turns his head, and his brown eyes scrutinize my face relentlessly.
"I only play games that I can win," he says, placing another bet.
Half a minute later, he is 40,000 dollars richer.
It goes on like this for a while, until he finally makes a move to gather his chips and indicates to the dealer that this will be his last round.
The movement of his hands is fluid. He pushes the plastic together as if brushing breadcrumbs off the table.
"Leaving already?" I ask.
He leans a bit closer to me. The scent of expensive cologne brushes my nose and causes a brief moment of dizziness.
"How does the saying go? You should stop while you're ahead," he grins with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Maybe it could get even better," I say suddenly, without knowing why those words just left my mouth.
"By having me led out of here in handcuffs?" he asks without batting an eye.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You work here." It’s not a question.
My fingers clutch the stem of the martini glass.
"What makes you think that?" I ask, meeting his gaze.
"Your posture." He motions with his chin toward my shoulders.
"You aren't sitting at this table like a guest. You're sitting on that stool like a sentry.
You're scanning my hands. You’re counting the cards in the shoe.
You put on this dress to attract attention, but in truth, you're uncomfortable in it.
You haven't stopped tugging at the hem."
A hot shiver runs down my neck. He is reading me like open source code.
"You have a vivid imagination," I answer. My voice sounds shakier than planned.
"I am an excellent observer." He reveals his own cards. A blackjack. The dealer slides another mountain of chips over to him.
He taps his index finger on the tabletop and stands up. He reaches for his remaining chips, though not without leaving the croupier an absurd tip.
"What is your name?" I ask before he can leave.
"I’ll tell you my name if you tell me what you're doing here."
"Contrary to your assumption, I am only here for pleasure. I have a boring office job."
He looks at me searchingly. "My name is Jack," he says finally.
"Riley," I reply automatically. A stupid mistake. I should never use my real name.
"Riley," he repeats. The name rolls off his tongue. "If you are looking for pleasure, Riley, then you should leave your guard post. I’ll be over at the bar at the end of the hall. I drink whiskey. And I enjoy discussing mathematics, luck, and the meaning of life."
He turns around and strolls away. The other guests instinctively move back to make room for him.
I sit paralyzed on the stool, my hand trembling slightly.
My mind is racing. This guy is costing the casino a damn fortune.
No one wins over a million dollars with blind luck.
He is counting cards. He is calculating the remaining decks in the shoe with unbelievable precision, and that is strictly forbidden in my father's halls.
Technically, I must alert security immediately. One short call, and three broad-shouldered men would unceremoniously show this guy the door.
My fingers brush the cold casing of my phone in my handbag. I close my eyes, but I don't pull the device out.
I need more proof. A vague suspicion isn't enough to kick out such a composed player without provoking a massive scandal at the table.
At least, that’s what I tell myself while my pulse continues to beat far too fast.
But there is something else. A steady tugging in the pit of my stomach.
He saw me. He looked behind the green dress and noticed the woman whose golden cage is starting to feel too small.
I slide off the barstool and smooth the fabric of the dress one last time. The air in the casino is suddenly electric.
I can't say exactly what it is inside me that prompts me to do what I'm about to do. But I feel an invisible force enticing me to make a decision. A decision that, at this point, I don't yet know will shatter my entire life.
Then, I follow the mysterious man with the silver-streaked hair to the bar.