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“Well yeah. Look at this spread! All you can play, all you can drink. All you can eat…” He glances to a row of servers swaying by, each of them carrying a tray full of pills, powders, smokables.

“What is it you call it?”

“Buffet.”

“Perhaps later. For now, we focus.”

“And blend in,” his eyebrows wag as he offers me his arm and heads toward a table. “Keep an eye out for anyone being escorted to a VIP area or something.”

“I know my job, jackass. You focus on not making scene.”

“Pssh. I would never.”

Until several minutes later.

“Come on, baby!” Ciro bellows, laughing uproariously and enjoying himself way too much. “We could dispense with the formalities, chums. Just give me your money and we’ll call it a day.”

Every man at the table glares at Ciro and his ridiculous British accent. So much for lying low.

“Must be my good luck charm…” Shakal looks up at me lovingly.

“If I help you win, you owe me a new yacht,” I pout, dipping a bit lower over his chair and flaunting my cleavage. The tempers at the table cool down, distracted by my boobs.

Men are so predictable.

And frankly, my boobs are spectacular.

“If I win, I’ll buy you a fleet, gorgeous.” He grins like idiot.

I pretend to giggle, to swoon.

Ugh.

All the while scanning the crowds for what we need. There!

A cluster of dour looking men, all in dark suits, head toward one of the back hallways. Most of them scan the gatherings, clearly bodyguards. The two in the center are aloof, oblivious. Rich.

Tapping my lover twice on the shoulder, I signal that it is time to move. He should fold. Cash out.

“Call,” he croons.

Dammit.

Once again, the chips slide toward Ciro. With a haughty laugh and an innocent shrug, he rises. Every one of the opponents rises with him, looks of violence on their faces.

“Deal them in for a thousand each, and buy these gentlemen a lap dance on me.” Ciro turns, leaving the table without a backward glance.

Well played.

They resume, some of the men cheering his praise. An attendant rushes to the table, gathering the rest of our earnings and tallying them up. Efficient. Honest.

A well-run den. Whoever is in charge knows how to cater to their clientele.

“You know, you could have just let them win one round.”

“Hand. And no. That sort of weakness is unacceptable.” He puts on that terrible Russian accent again. Mocking. “But seriously, winning like a jackass will make me more forgettable than being mysterious or nonchalant. Especially since we stand out like a sore thumb, otherwise. This way, I am just a thrill-seeking, foolish debutant.”

“You mean target for when we leave.”