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I smile, pulling out a wad of cash and counting it.

Two grand.

Look at me, living up to my family name now.

A little thief.

In my defense, if I push the marriage issue and Julian becomes my husband, what’s his is mine, right? Plus, I doubt he’ll mind missing a few thousand dollars. If he does, I’ll pay him back. Maybe it’ll convince him to give me a job to earn money.

I stop in my tracks when a thought hits me.

Is there a safe in here?

Maybe I won’t have to gamble this money.

I can steal the cash and pay off the Russians.

Pfft, yeah right.

The man has a lock on a drawer, which probably consists of only pens and condoms. He’s not leaving a safe open for easy access. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a passcode on his cock.

I return to the couch and shove the cash into my purse, a giddy smile on my face. That smile builds when I slowly open the door, finding it unlocked, and leave his office.

12

I tiptoefrom Julian’s office as if I were the Hamburglar, about to rob the casino for Big Macs, and land in a quiet hallway.

Every door is closed, and I hear voices behind one.

I turn on my heel and move in the opposite direction, toward the chaotic noise. I know I’m close to my destination when I hear loud music and the sound of slot machines ringing. When I hit the casino floor, I stand there in awe, taking in the scene.

I’ve been to the New York Lucky Kings, but not this location. Atlantic City puts the New York location to shame. When Pippa told me about Julian opening a casino on his own, I was excited for him. He’d always preferred doing stuff solo.

New York’s aesthetic borderlines what you’d find in Vegas.

Bright lights, neon decor, and gold ceilings.

Julian’s is ritzy and screams old money, reminding me ofThe Great Gatsby.

Like his office, it’s sophisticated.

It’s where you’d picture men in the Roaring Twenties illegally gambling in private rooms, smoking cigars, and making high-stake bets. Even the slot machines, while electronic, still appearlike the classic ones. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their lights reflecting off the machine screens.

I head straight to the blackjack table.

My late nanny, Sonya—may sherest in peace—taught me to play when I was seven. Playing cards was a regular pastime for us. When I couldn’t sleep, she’d make me a cup of hot cocoa, and we’d play until I started yawning.

Three men are seated at the table, and they watch me in curiosity as I sit.

One smirks, as if he can’t wait to take my money.

The other winks at me, perking up in his chair.

I force an innocent smile, excited to taketheir money.

The dealer furrows his brow, as if my sitting down annoys him. He cocks his head to the side, suddenly intrigued, when I pull out the cash from my purse.

I count out five crisp hundreds and slide the bills to the dealer. He exchanges them for chips, and my pulse speeds.