Monty’s driver waited for me by the baggage carousel, dressed in a pressed suit and jacket, his lips a line and his eyes set dead ahead right until the point where I came to stand in front of him, when he deigned to look at me. His white hair was kept short, close to buzzed. Like Monty had said he would be, he was in possession of a printed sign that simply read “M. R.”

“Hello, sir,” the driver said cordially.

“Hey.” I paused. “I’m the M. R. you’re looking for, but there’s been a change of plans.”

He blinked and said nothing, but the pale blues of his eyes scrutinized me.

I gave him a second to get over himself, then continued. “I have a few errands I need to take care of before I head back to my condo, so I’ll be arranging my own transportation. I’d appreciate it if you could deliver my bag, though. I don’t want to have to worry about it while I’m out.”

“Of course, sir.” The driver’s voice was monotonous, but I could tell from the expression on his face that he was so over me. “Before I deliver the bag, is there anything you need from inside of it?”

“I’ve already taken out everything I need,” I replied. “Fair warning: it’s pretty heavy. Let me wheel it to the car for you. I can at least get it loaded in the trunk.”

The driver’s eyes remained fixed on me, but I wasn’t sure he was seeing me. After however long he’d been serving Monty, I supposed I couldn’t blame him—he’d probably had to learn pretty quickly how to tune everything out. I could only imagine the things that went on in my brother’s home. “Unnecessary, sir. I’ll be happy to bring it to the car myself.”

“I insist.” I glanced toward the doors leading out of the airport. The sun had set, and bright lights chased away the darkness. “I’ve got a long night ahead of me, and a little exercise will help get me fired up. Take me to where you’re parked?”

The driver barely masked his dreary sigh. “Yes, sir.”

What a party animal.

We left the airport and headed for the designated parking area, my luggage clicking behind me.

It was going to be one hell of a long day, but what I had planned? It was going to make it more than worth it.

The Palisade Hotel and Casino occupied a prominent spot on the Strip, its thirty-eight floors lit up from the outside by spotlights, its wavelike, cascading architecture impressive and vaguely reminiscent of the buildings I’d seen in downtown Chicago. Its facade was inlaid with tiny crystals invisible to the naked eye, but that sparkled in the floodlights, making The Palisade shine like a diamond. Travel sites had taken to calling it “The Gem of the Las Vegas Strip,” and at night, it wasn’t hard to tell why.

Spanning The Palisade’s exterior courtyard was a vast fountain. A column of transparent oversized gemstones of different sizes and cuts were stacked at its center, lit up from the inside. Water gushed from the top and poured over the sides, running along the gems’ smooth faces and streaming from suspended corners. Instead of pennies, the bottom of the fountain was layered with gemstone after gemstone, each of them installed to prevent thieving hands from carrying them away. It didn’t stop tourists from trying—they sat in clusters at the sides of the fountain, hands in the water, picking and prying.

I didn’t have the heart to tell them they were coveting cubic zirconia at best.

I cut around the fountain and headed for The Palisade’s front doors. Three sets of steps divided it from the courtyard, two broad ramps on either side offering accessibility for all patrons. I took the steps at a jog, then rolled my shoulders back as I stepped through the doors. The lobby area was accessible to the public, and while there was security in place to make sure none of The Palisade’s guests were jostled or panhandled, no one was there to stop me from entering the premises. From what I knew of Troy and the quality of most of his employees, I suspected it would be a while before anyone clued in that Robin Mills had infiltrated the building.

I took a left from the lobby, heading through the lavishly decorated archway leading into the casino. A bouncer stood on either side of the doorway, and both looked my way when I passed, but neither said anything or tried to stop me. If I hadn’t known The Palisade as well as I did, it would have surprised me—I was twenty-two, but barely looked it—but I knew that the staff here was inattentive at best. No one was going to say or do jack shit until it was too late.

I slipped my hands into the pockets of my black slacks and made my way to the cage. Years ago, when Mom’s health had deteriorated, I’d put my mind to use and toured casino to casino counting cards, cashing out large dollar sums every night, never hitting the same place twice, and always playing by the rules. By federal law, casinos were required to alert the IRS to any player who cashed out over ten thousand dollars on any given night, but beyond federal law, there were casino rules that limited and complicated winnings. Some places wouldn’t allow a player to hold onto any winning chips valued one hundred dollars or more after a winning hand—they had to be cashed out immediately, oftentimes involving a phone call from the cage to the pit to verify the chips had been legally obtained. Some places demanded ID at different thresholds of earning—most often three thousand dollars—and tracked undesirable players that way, declining them service when those players became “too good for the game.” Casino hopping and card counting wasn’t only about being smart about the cards left in play and the probability of a particular number being pulled, but about the research behind every establishment and its quirks. If I could milk a casino out of three thousand dollars a night for a week before I was banned, it was better than a singular payday that skirted the ten-thousand-dollar mark but alerted everyone and their uncle that I was far from the typical player.

Tonight, though, I wasn’t looking to be discreet. Tonight, I wanted eyes on me.

I leaned against the counter and spoke to the woman on the other side of the glass, putting on my best sly smile as I slid my debit card into the payment slot. “Ten thousand in Barneys.”

The woman looked at me. While she did her best to remain casual, a glint of suspicion shone in her eyes. She performed the transaction, but I knew from that single look that security would be keeping a close eye on me. How long would it take them to figure out who I was?

The cashier placed my poker chips—worth five hundred dollars each and colored purple like their eponymous dinosaur—in the slot and pushed them to me. With them in my possession, I left the cage and headed for the pit. If I’d wanted to blow my cover right away, I would have paid admission to the high roller area, but the idea of really twisting the knife appealed to me more, so I settled for a more discreet approach.

I slotted into the first blackjack table I could find and laid down my chip. The dealer’s eyes shot to mine, shocked, and I offered her a pleasant smile. With five hundred dollars on the line, I was in the game and back in action. Step one of tonight’s master plan: complete.