Chapter 3
The back room of the casino was a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the main floor. No flashing lights, no ringing slot machines, just stale cigarette smoke and the low hum of anxiety.
Nix sat across from a man whose face was obscured by shadows, his voice a gravelly whisper that echoed in the silence.
“You assured me this wouldn’t be a problem,” the man said, his words laced with a quiet menace that sent shivers down Nix’s spine.
“A minor setback,” Nix managed, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “A matter of liquidity. I’ll have it sorted within the week.”
The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Promises are cheap in this town, Mr. Karras. I deal in results.” He leaned forward, the light catching the glint of a gold ring on his finger. “Don’t make me come looking for you again.”
Nix nodded, his throat suddenly dry. He left the room with a forced confidence he didn’t feel, the weight of his mistake pressing down on him with every step. He needed a solution, and fast.
He needed Ethan.
Ethan found Nix at a dingy bar on the outskirts of the Strip, nursing a whiskey that looked as dark and troubled as his mood.
“Rough night?” Ethan asked, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Nix gave a wry smile. “You could say that. Lost a bet I shouldn’t have made.”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “That’s not like you, Nix. You’re usually the one raking it in.”
“Yeah, well,” Nix hesitated, “let’s just say I played a hand I couldn’t afford to lose.”
He explained the situation—the debt, the ominous meeting in the back room. He needed Ethan to deliver a package, a small but crucial step in rectifying his mistake.
Ethan wasn’t stupid. He knew this wasn’t just a casual favor. He could smell the danger clinging to Nix like cheap cologne. But there was something about the desperation in Nix’s eyes, a flicker of vulnerability that Ethan couldn’t ignore.
“Alright,” Ethan said, taking a swig of his beer. “I’ll do it.”
Nearby, at the other end of the bar, two bartenders were talking in hushed voices. Ethan caught pieces of their conversation between sips of his drink.
“Did you hear about what happened on Fremont?”
“Yeah… I knew her, man. Jess was one of the good ones.”
“Just sitting in her car, and those kids just—” the man exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Senseless.”
Ethan looked down at his glass, fingers tightening around it. There was a heaviness in the air, a silent understanding passing between him and Nix. Some people lost money in this town. Some lost their lives.
Ethan swallowed hard and signaled for another round.
After Hours Reflections | The Balcony Over the Strip
The plates had been cleared, the last of the wine lingering in their glasses, but neither Alessia nor Roman moved to leave. The city stretched out below them, golden and endless, but up here ~ on the restaurant’s open-air balcony ~ it felt quiet. Almost peaceful.
“I still can’t believe it,” Alessia said, her voice low, distant. “That bartender downtown. Shot and killed over nothing.”
Roman exhaled sharply, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Vegas moves fast. One night you’re pouring drinks, the next, you’re a headline.”
Alessia studied him. “You knew him?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen it before. Wrong place, wrong time. The city’s full of stories like that.”
She nodded, but something else was on her mind. She turned toward him, her expression unreadable. “And what about the other stories?”
Roman smirked, but it was the kind that deflected, not answered. “Which ones?”
Alessia’s gaze didn’t waver. “The girls, Roman.”
He took a slow sip, letting the silence stretch between them. “Does it matter?”
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Not surprised, not angry—just tired. “It’s all a mirage, isn’t it?”
Roman didn’t answer right away. He just looked out at the Strip, where the lights blurred into something both beautiful and hollow. “Yeah,” he finally said. “But it’s a good one.”
Ethan’s life was a blur of late nights, blurred lines, and bad decisions. The encounter with Nix had shaken him, leaving a residue of unease that he tried to drown out with alcohol and reckless abandon. He was spiraling, and he knew it, but the thrill of the fall was intoxicating.
Roman watched him from a distance, a frown creasing his brow. He had seen this before, the self-destructive tendencies that could consume someone whole. He approached Ethan one night at the club, his voice firm but laced with concern.
“You need to slow down, Ethan,” Roman said. “You’re playing with fire.”
Ethan scoffed, his eyes glazed over. “I can handle myself, Roman. Don’t worry about me.”
“I’m not worried about you,” Roman said, his voice hardening. “I’m worried about what you’re becoming.”
Ethan brushed him off, turning back to the bar. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to face the truth. But Roman’s words lingered, a nagging voice in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite silence.
The Price of the Dream | A VIP Gig Breakdown
Savannah leaned against the VIP lounge bar, her freshly manicured nails tapping against the glass. “So… what do you actually make off a guy like that?”
Alessia took a measured sip of her champagne, glancing at the high-roller in the corner—some hedge fund type drowning in bottle service and barely-legal company. “Depends. Is he a whale, or does he just like to play one?”
Savannah huffed a small laugh. “He dropped twenty grand on Dom Pérignon just to impress some influencers.”
Alessia’s lips curved, but there was no humor in it. “Then he’s not a whale. He’s a guppy with a trust fund.”
Savannah shook her head, exhaling. “I swear, this city makes you forget what normal even looks like.”
Alessia met her gaze, something knowing in her eyes. “That’s the trick, Savannah. Normal doesn’t exist here.”
Savannah’s phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. It was an offer, a VIP gig with a high-roller client, the kind of opportunity that could make her week’s earnings in a single night. But something about it felt off. The details were vague, the location undisclosed, the client’s name unfamiliar.
She showed the message to Alessia, her brow furrowed with concern. “What do you think?”
Alessia read the message, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t like it. It’s too secretive, too much money for too little information.”
Alessia made a few calls, her network of contacts providing a clearer picture of the situation. The client was known for his demanding nature, his expectations extending beyond the usual boundaries of a VIP host.
“Stay away from this one, Savannah,” Alessia warned. “It’s not worth the risk.”
Savannah nodded, relieved. She had been drawn in by the allure of the money, but Alessia’s words brought her back to reality. She knew the dangers of this world, the fine line between opportunity and exploitation.
📍 Return to the Illusion
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