Not even these gigantic designer sunglasses can block out the blazing bright desert sun over Fremont Street. I lean back in my chair, seated at two square, blocky wooden tables pushed together to be big enough to seat my team of colleagues. There are five of us here, perched in front of our respective bellinis and mimosas and various sworn-by hangover cures.

I, for one, do not like to ever admit when I’m hungover. Or under the weather. Or upset. I just like to keep my weaknesses to myself, thank you very much. But after my long night of gambling and pounding back vodka cranberries into the wee hours of the morning, there’s no way to really hide how awful I feel.

My stomach is churning, my limbs feel heavy. My head is pounding as though there’s a tiny man inside my brain just swinging away with a pickaxe. And I know if I were to lower my shades for even a second, my colleagues would all see the shadowy bags under my eyes, definitive proof that I’m not feeling my tip-top best.

I don’t like to be vulnerable. I don’t like people to know when or how to take advantage of me. Even in little ways. Nobody is allowed to get the upper hand over me. So maybe I look a little rude wearing my shades at a restaurant, but in my defense, we are seated outside on the back patio. So the sun is technically right there. And these sunglasses are expensive. Flashy. Yet another status symbol collected into my wardrobe.

It’s my favorite and subtle way to tell people not to mess with me. I want my look at all times to clearly broadcast the message: you can’t afford what it costs to talk to me. Is that harsh? Oh yes. Certainly. But in my line of work, the less conversation you have to share with strangers, the safer you are. People are always trying to understand me. Get in my head. Find out my secret. But I keep my armor tight and gleaming.

Nobody gets in.

Well, except for Dominick, I remind myself bitterly. As I sip my peach bellini, I can’t help but think of him. He’s weaseled his way into my thoughts, and it’s driving me wild. I keep picturing the way he looked at me, the way his hand felt, heavy on my shoulder, as he gave me that hushed, fervent warning. A warning I completely refused to heed.

For better or for worse, I’m deep in this work.

This “scam,” if you’re honest enough to call it that.

Admittedly, I haven’t spent a lot of my time on this planet being especially honest. Maybe when I was a little girl. I had a normal childhood for the most part. Both of my parents have always been supportive, always loving me no matter what risky path I journey down. I know they worry about me. They know I’m a big-time gambler, a poker player rising up through the international ranks. It’s the fame they’re afraid of. Maybe they think I’m going to be some kind of celebrity, unable to leave my home without being assaulted by paparazzi with gigantic cameras in my face. But what they don’t understand is how cautious I am. I’m constantly outrunning my fame. It trails after me, but I’ve usually already moved on to the next shakedown by the time people realize who I am.

I have a distinctive look. It’s intentional. But not to make myself memorable. In fact, it is my greatest hope that my competitors will forget me as soon as I leave the table. I have a reputation, but I’m done everything my power to make it a quiet one. The kind of notoriety people whisper about but don’t print in the papers.

It’s why I try not to have long conversations with people I’m not already affiliated with. It’s why sharing my life story with a guy like Dominick is dangerous and why I don’t ever let myself do it. I’m still so disappointed in myself for giving in to his charms so easily. He really led me astray. Even one night in his arms has been enough to shake me to my core. Usually it’s easy for me to control my thoughts. I have a razor-sharp focus. It’s one of my greatest strengths in my career.

But Dominick has infiltrated my thoughts like some kind of super-handsome parasite, and I’m bitter about it.

This is no time for distraction, especially now that I’m sitting here commiserating with my coworkers. Or, more accurately, my assorted partners-in-crime. Apart from myself, there are two women and two men at the table, the oldest of us only thirty-four. Carl calls us his kids sometimes, which I find pretty hilarious. I guess in some ways he’s like a father. He’s domineering and authoritative and always pushing us out of our comfort zones… for money. But it’s not like any of us can go running to him for comfort. He’s not that kind of father figure. If you fuck up, you sure as hell don’t expect sympathy from Carl Owens.

“Man, I’m so groggy this morning,” gripes one of my colleagues, the eldest one. He’s a tall, skinny former MIT nerd named Kyle. He was recruited by Carl once he got caught writing fellow students’ work for them and was promptly kicked out of the prestigious university. He was the first one to join the team. Kyle is sort of the team OG, and often functions as Carl’s right-hand man. He’s the one who texts us what some might call “passive-aggressively encouraging” messages to keep us on our toes. When Carl’s not around, he’s an affable guy. But when the boss is nearby, Kyle turns right back into a raging sycophant. It’s almost embarrassing.

“Yeah, I feel like I got hit by a bus last night or something,” sighs the young woman seated to my left. I’m at the head of the table, purely because I showed up late, after everyone else was already seated. On my left is Monique, a stunning girl with long box braids and the brightest, most disarming smile I’ve ever seen outside of a toothpaste commercial. At only twenty-one, she’s the baby of the group, and grew up very sheltered. Apparently, she learned how to play poker while away at Bible camp as a teenager, which I find positively delightful. She’s a relatively new recruit, but she shows major promise.

The guy on my right is a quiet guy named Jasper. Well, that’s the name he gave us when Carl brought him into the fold. I don’t think it’s his real name. I don’t know his age or anything, but he looks to be around my age, give or take. Carl recruited him from some big corporate office in Hong Kong, choked by smog and hyper competition. Jasper was bored out of his mind in his big, airy high-rise office, and even though he was apparently raking in the millions, he longed for a more adventurous lifestyle.

Enter Carl Owens.

On a business trip to an underground poker tournament in the city, Carl found Jasper winning round after round with this flat, emotionless look on his face. Jasper uses the stereotypical poker face strategy. Smooth, unaffected, never intimidated. I admire him a lot. He shares little about himself, not even with us, his own colleagues. It takes a lot of willpower to be that closed-off.

And on the other side of Jasper sits a woman named Casey. She’s a twenty-five-year-old spitfire with a shock of white-blonde curls that frame a round, innocent-looking face. Freckles splatter over the bridge of her button nose and her big powder-blue eyes tend to charm her competitors into a false sense of security.

Despite her angelic appearance, she’s the one you really need to watch out for.

When she gets pissed, you’d better get out of her way. Casey is what you might call a wild card. She’s constantly on Carl’s shit list because she often has difficulty remaining calm when she loses money. Granted, she’s also been blessed with the best luck I’ve ever seen. I’ve watched Casey start an evening in a fifty-thousand-dollar deficit, only to end with half a mil in her pocket. I’m pretty sure Casey is the sole reason why Carl’s hair has been going white more quickly over the past two years. She’s a troublemaker, but she’s got a good heart. I hesitate to say that about anyone, but with Casey it’s the truth.

There are two seats still markedly unoccupied at our table, meant for Carl himself and, of course, Vanessa. She’s the sweetheart of the group, but she’s also a little… well, a little scatterbrained. Carl worries about Casey, but it’s Vanessa who weighs on my mind. Especially right now, since her absence is burning a hole in my thoughts. After how I left her the other night, I’ve been worried about her, but this job doesn’t leave much down time. Especially since I spent so much of yesterday deep in the hole. And besides, I try not to make a habit of being anyone’s guardian. As much as I adore my teammates and genuinely enjoy their camaraderie, I still have to keep a reasonable distance. For my sake. For the sake of my fortune. And for their sake too.

“Where’s Nessa?” Casey asks as if she can read my mind.

“I haven’t heard from her in days,” Jasper says.

“I wish I knew,” I answer. “I’ve called her a few times and it just goes to voicemail, and she isn’t replying to my texts. My guess she’s either having the worst or best time of her life, and either way she wants to keep it on the downlow.”

“Well, she needs to at least check in with me or the boss,” Kyle says, always the deputy.

“Do you think something might have… happened to her?” Monique asks in a hushed voice, her brown eyes wide.

“Here,” I say, pulling out my cell phone, “I’ll give her another call.” Everyone watches me as I dial her number and press the phone to my ear. I listen to the line ring once, twice, three times, and so on until her voicemail kicks in.

“Hi, you’ve reached Vanessa—” click. I set the phone down and sigh.

“Nothing?” Monique prompts me, worried.

“Nothing. Just voicemail again. I’ve already left her several messages,” I admit.

“She’ll turn up. It’s likely just the big city capturing her attention,” Kyle says confidently. “Can we all agree to keep a look out for her, though? I mean, the boss hasn’t been around much lately either, but it’s normal for him to disappear. Vanessa, though, she usually checks in if she’s going to flake.”

“Yeah, we’re all each other has in this world,” Casey points out honestly.

Monique nods. “You don’t think she got in a fight with Carl or anything, right?”

“No. She’s too smart to take that risk,” Jasper says sagely.

“Weird that Carl would miss out on a chance to day drink,” Casey says, totally deadpan as she spikes her mimosa with something from her pink, sparkly flask. “And eat breakfast food. One time on a flight I watched that man order two bagels in a row.”

Monique snorts. “Well, Carl’s a man who knows what he wants out of life, at least.”

“Yeah, cold cash and cheap breakfast foods,” adds Kyle, grinning. Then he looks down the table at me. “Anyway, I wanted to congratulate you on your winning streak lately, Hadley.”

“Your whole ‘hapless ingenue’ tactic has been working very well,” Jasper says. “It’s a good way to surprise your opponents into trusting you.”

“Ooh yes, I heard you were killin’ it,” chimes Casey.

I nod slowly. “Should have won more, though,” I sigh.

Jasper frowns. “Why more? Is something distracting you?”

I’m grateful for my gigantic sunglasses because they’re helping to hide the pinkish blush spreading across my face at his question. I can feel the word vomit bubbling up inside me. I can only keep stuff to myself for so long before it just… comes out. And if I can’t trust these guys with a tiny, stupid little secret, then who can I trust?

“Oh, you are distracted,” Monique gasps, getting excited. “Is it about a boy?”

“A boy?” I repeat disdainfully, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t get distracted by boys. But a man, now that’s something else.”

“What’s he look like?” Casey asks, biting her lip.

“Oh, you know. The usual tall, dark, and handsome combination,” I tell her vaguely.

“What’s his name?” Monique presses me.

“Bond, James Bond, from the sound of it,” Casey teases.

“His name isn’t important,” I cut in. “We just had a very good night together and—”

“Ooooh, did you, now?” Casey giggles. Monique lets out a peal of laughter and has to clap her hands over her mouth.

“Guys, come on, we’re not in seventh grade,” Kyle sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Anyway. It was good. It was fun. And then in the morning, he turned back into an asshole, so it doesn’t matter,” I explain hastily. “I just hope I don’t run into him again.”

“Oh yeah, he sounds like a jerk,” Monique says, giving me a pitying smile.

“Just your run-of-the-mill asshole. Just like all of them are,” Casey adds. “You’re better off without him. Don’t let some loser throw you off your game. Men are intimidated by woman like you. It’s a good thing.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call him a loser,” I reply, unable to stop myself.

“Really? Because he sure sounds like one,” Monique inserts.

Casey nods vigorously as the two guys at the table exchange mildly offended expressions. They know better than to interject themselves into this particular topic.

“No, he really… he wasn’t that bad. I guess I’m just disappointed, that’s all. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. That’s my fault. Not his,” I ramble, feeling dumber by the second.

Why am I defending him? Why do I care? What’s wrong with me? He’s the one who left. He’s the one who is in the process of selling us out. I tap my foot anxiously. I need to tell Carl something, anything to get him out of this fucking town, and that’s not a conversation I can have on the phone. Why isn’t he here yet?

I quickly change the conversation topic, and before long, I’ve got them all sharing tactics and comparing strategies instead of discussing my love life or lack thereof. I listen half-heartedly as they talk about poker faces and fake-outs and what to wear and how to speak or whether to speak at all. They talk money. They talk winning and losing. And all along, my mind is far away, somewhere else completely. I cycle through three questions again and again.

Where is Carl?

Where is Vanessa?

And why, when I think of Dom, am I feeling warm and fuzzy instead of the burning rage I should feel?

Finally, when we’ve all eaten our fill of bacon, french toast, chilaquiles, and various forms of morning-appropriate booze, the checks come. We each pay our tab and leave handsome tips, as is our ritual. When we split up to go our separate ways, I head to the sidewalk out front to try and hail a cab. But just before I can lift my arm to hail one, my phone starts buzzing in my purse. I yank it out and answer without even glancing at the caller ID on the screen.

“Hello?” I answer rather brusquely.

“Hadley! It-it’s me! Please, you have to help me,” hisses the petrified voice of Vanessa. My heart sinks. She sounds even more afraid than she did the other night.

“Vanessa? Oh god, what’s wrong, hon? What’s going on?” I ask, curling my hand over the phone so I can speak more softly into it. I step away from the curb and duck away into a narrow, dark alley to talk to her. The line is popping and snapping, an underlying crackle telling me our connection probably isn’t super clear.

“Hadley—I—they got—I’m here,” she croaks out between blips of static.

“Where? Where are you? Who’s got you?” I demand to know.

“I don’t—kidnapped—”

My eyes widen. “What? You’ve been kidnapped? Are you serious? Holy shit. Vanessa, listen to me. What you have to do is obey them. Do what they say, alright? Be polite. Don’t give them any more reason to hurt you. Try to bond with them. And if you see a way to escape, take it. Don’t hesitate. But you’ve got to be sure, okay?” I tell her quickly, adrenaline flooding my veins as I picture her in tears, chained up in some creep’s basement.

“Hadley, the mafia—” she says frantically. The line drops out for a second and comes back when she says, “Carl—made a deal—”

“Carl? What? Carl is behind this?” I whisper, totally stunned.

“Help me, I—” Vanessa bursts out tearfully, and then the line goes dead. I stare at the phone in disbelief.

“No. No, no, no,” I mutter, trying to redial the number. But it’s a blocked number. No way to call it back. Someone’s got Vanessa. She’s in trouble, and it could be all Carl’s doing.